MEANWHILE the Queen, fanning a secret fire In her own breast, revolves her deep desire; She oft reflects upon the princely grace Of great Aeneas, and that noble race From whence he springs: her wounded fancy feeds On his discourse, his high heroic deeds: His words, his looks, her waking thoughts employ, And when she sleeps, she sees him with more joy; But seldom sleeps: for when the shades of night Had left their empire to the rising light, Folding her sister in her arms, she says, 'What unacquainted thoughts, what dreams are these? How great a guest within our walls we hold, How wise in counsel, and in arms how bold? The mortal seed of man acknowledge fear, But this brave Prince his equal mind doth bear Above all chance. Did not my changeless vow, And mine own will, engage me to allow No other love; my first affection dead, And with the soul of my Sichaeus fled: Were not all joys grown tasteless, and the name Of love offensive, since I lost that flame; I might perhaps indulge this one desire, For, Anna, I confess since funeral fire Embrac'd Sichaeus, this first beam of light Hath offered comfort to so dark a night, Unwonted motions in my thoughts retriev'd, I find and feel the brand of care reviv'd. But may the earth, while yet alive, devour This hapless frame, and Jove his thunder pour Upon my head, and sink me to that shade, That silent deep, whence no return is made; Before I do those sacred knots untie, Which bind me to so dear a memory. He first unto my soul this ardour gave, And may he hold it in his quiet grave.' This said, she weeps afresh. Anna replies; 'O chiefly lov'd, and dearer than mine eyes, Sad and alone for ever will you waste Your verdant youth, nor nature's bounties taste In their due season? think you that the dead In their cold urns welcome the tears we shed? What though no pray'rs have yet had power to move Your thoughts, to entertain a second love; Yet will you now with your own heart contest? Nor give admittance to a pleasing guest? Consider where this new plantation lies, And amidst whom these walls of Carthage rise: Here the Getulians, fierce Numidians there, On either side engage your watchful fear. Propitious heav'ns, it seems, and Juno, lead, These Trojans here with so desir'd an aid: This match will mix your fortunes, and advance The Tyrian State above all force or chance. Invoke the powers above; with soft delay Engage the Dardan Prince to longer stay: 'Till the swol'n seas and winds their fury spend, And calmer gales his purposes attend.' This speech revives the courage of the dame, And through her burning veins dilates the flame. First to the holy temple they repair, And seek indulgence from above by prayer; Law-giving Ceres, Phoebus they invoke, But above all do Venus' altars smoke Propitious to the bands of love; the Queen With her own hands, the heifer's horns between, Pours the full bowls, or 'midst the sacrifice Intentive walks. As the rich odours rise Fresh gifts she brings, and with a thoughtful brain Surveys the panting livers of the slain; Blind prophesies, vain altars, bootless prayer, How little help they! while so near a care Presses the Queen, and mingled with her blood Spreads secret poison through the purple flood. The hapless Dido is enrag'd by love, And with uncertain thoughts doth wildly move. So when a shepherd's roving arrows find And pierce (to him unknown) some careless hind, She flies thro' woods, and seeks the streams, opprest, The deadly arrow rankles in her breast. Now to the walls she leads her Trojan chief, And with this food she entertain'd her grief. Shows the Sidonian wealth; and, as she speaks, Her own discourse (by care diverted) breaks; The evening closes with another feast, And there again sh' invites the princely guest To tell his dangers past, and there again She drinks together deeper love and pain. But when the Prince (night's darker ensign spread, And sleepy dew upon all mortals shed) Doth bid farewell, she waking there alone Deserted mourns that her dear guest is gone; Or keeps Ascanius in her arms, to prove If likeness can delude her restless love. Meanwhile her stately structures slowly rise, Half-finish'd Carthage rude and broken lies. That high design, to heav'n['s] exalted frame, Confus'd appears, and like a ruin lame. Which when survey'd by Juno from above, And that the Queen neglects her fame for love; Approaching Venus, thus Saturnia says: 'What ample trophies, never-dying praise, To you and to your Cupid will be paid, That two such gods one woman have betray'd? I know with what design you us'd this art, Planting Aeneas thus in Dido's heart, Suspecting lest these walls of ours might prove Faithless to him, if not secur'd by love. But shall this partial quarrel never cease? May we not now fix on eternal peace? Fair Dido loves, and feels your golden dart; Give but like ardour to Aeneas' heart, And we will rule this state with equal power, And give the Trojan Carthage for a dower.' Venus replies (seeing the wife of Jove To cross the height of Roman greatness strove With this deceit): 'What madness can refuse Friendship with you, where you a friendship choose? But whether Jove will favour this design, And the great people in one empire join; This in your prayers, who are his wife, doth lie.' Juno returns: 'Impose this task on me, For what is now in hand, let this suffice. The Trojan Prince with this unhappy prize, The wounded Queen, to chase the flying deer, Soon as the beams of morning-light appear, Hies to the fields; there, on the godly train, A dark'ning shower I'll pour of hail and rain, Shake heav'n with thunder, while the pale troops ride Disperst with fear, and lost without a guide: One cave in her dark bosom shall afford Shelter to Dido and the Trojan lord; And if, as I, propitious to their love You shine; this shall their hymeneal prove; All rites shall here be done.' Venus with smiles Consents, but laughs within at Juno's wiles. The morning come, early at light's first ray The gallant youth rise with the cheerful day: Sharp javelins in their hands, their coursers by, They walk amidst the hounds' impatient cry: Nearer the gates the Tyrian peers attend, And wait the Queen now ready to descend. Her prouder steed, as fill'd with high disdain, Stamps the dull earth, and chaws the frothy rein. Mounted at last, her golden quiver on Ti'd up with gold, her hair which gold-like shone, Her purple garment, clasped with gold, in head Of her fair troop, the brighter Queen doth lead: With these the Trojans, and their great chief, close As one fair stream into another flows. He like Apollo in his light and heat, When he returns unto his native seat Of Delos, and fresh verdure doth restore, Forsaking Xanthus and the Lycian shore. Thus he on Cynthus' tops, his own retreat, Securely walks, thus welcome and thus great, The Dryopeans and the Cretans by, So doth his quiver clash; not less than he Aeneas shines, like beauty's in his face, And in his motions like attractive grace. While thus they climb the pathless hills, the cry Pursues the fearful herds, which headlong fly Down to the vales, and on the boundless plain A longer chase in view of all maintain. But glad Ascanius spurs his willing horse, Now these, now those, out-passing in the course, He wishes some incensed boar his prey, Or lion from the hills would cross his way. Meanwhile the gathering clouds obscure the pole, They flash out lightning, and in thunder roll: A bitter storm succeeds; the troops divide, And o'er the hills dispers'd to coverts ride. One cave in her dark bosom doth afford Shelter to Dido and the Trojan lord. Heaven shines with fire, earth shakes at this success, The conscious air is fill'd with prodigies. This was the hour, which gave the fatal blow, The pregnant spring of all succeeding woe. Tender respects no more have power to move The hapless Queen, no more she hides her love, But doth her crime express with Hymen's name, And lives expos'd a theme to various fame. Fame, the most swift of ills, which in her course And motion spreads, and flying gathers force, Sprung from a scarce discerned seed, doth tread On the low ground, but lifts to heav'n her head. She (as 'tis said) was of that monstrous birth, The latest sister, which the teeming earth Brought forth, to war with heav'n itself alone Surviving all her brothers overthrown. Thousands of plumes advance her easy flight, As many eyes enlarge her piercing sight, As many ears to catch reports, and then As many tongues to spread those tales again. The silent night cannot the voice allay Of this ill-boding dame; in the bright day She sits upon the city walls a spy, And takes delight all fears to multiply: She now through Libya's empire doth diffuse Talk of Aeneas, and th' unwelcome news Of Dido's love, that he, late fled from Troy, Such envy'd power and greatness doth enjoy. This the light dame proclaims in ev'ry ear, And to Iarbas doth the message bear; Iarbas, who had felt fair Dido's scorn, Jove's son, of ravish'd Garamantis born, Who hallowed had to his great father's name An hundred altars, which together flame With ceaseless incense to the powers above, Eternal fires, pledges of humble love. Mad with the news, the Libyan monarch lays Prostrate himself before the throne, and says; 'All-powerful Jove, propitious to the Moors, Whom Libya more than any land adores, Beholdst thou this? or doth in vain our fear Ascribe just vengeance to the Thunderer? She, who a stranger with our leave hath gain'd Possession here, from us the power obtain'd To plant a town, hath thought herself above The price and merit of our ardent love; Yet now with joy receives into our land The flying Trojan and his conquer'd band, Resigns to him her beauty, fame, and power, Prefers the Phrygian to the scorned Moor. Is this our pay, our recompense, while we Consume our flocks in sacrifice to thee?' While thus he pours his grief before the shrines And sacred altars, mighty Jove inclines; Looking on Carthage, and the amorous pair, Who in their pleasure quench all nobler care, He thus bespeaks his swift ambassador; 'Go, son, and hie thee to the Tyrian shore, And to the Dardan Prince (whose generous fire Is now betrayed by love, and low desire) This message bear. 'Twas not this destiny His fairest mother promis'd us, when she Preserv'd him from the powerful arms of Greece; She gave us then far other hopes than these; That he from conquer'd Alba should extend His empire to the world's remotest end, And spread the fame of Teucer's mighty race. If in his thoughts these honours have no place, If he have lost all sense of high renown; Ah! can he yet envy the towers of Rome To his Ascanius, and fair Latium's sway? This message to the Phrygian Prince convey, And bid him hoise his sails.' Swift Mercury Takes the command, and through the air doth fly, His shining wings of gold, and in his hand The ensign of his power, his sacred wand; That wand which long-clos'd eyes doth bless with light, And seals up others in eternal night. With this he cuts the air, and yielding clouds; At length sees Atlas' top, Atlas which shrouds His pine-crown'd head in heaven, and doth sustain Incessant storms of new-form'd wind and rain. Here first he stoops low as the earth, and then Employs his wings with all their speed again: 'Till, the vast seas o'erpast and Libya's sands, He slacks his course at Carthage, and there lands. Where when arriv'd he finds the Trojan King Viewing the walls, intent in ordering The strength and beauty of the new-rais'd town; To whom the wing'd Cyllenius thus begun: 'Ah, too too mindless of your own affairs, Your thoughts immerst in less concerning cares, Can you in Tyrian wealth and greatness joy; And Carthage build, forgetful of your Troy? Great Jove, who rules and fills the spacious all, The ever-moving spheres, the fixed ball, Sends me to ask, with what unblessed design You do the hopes of better fates resign, And glory due to Teucer's mighty race? If in your thoughts these honours have no place, If you have lost all sense of high renown; Ah, can you yet envy the towers of Rome To your Ascanius, and fair Latium's sway?' Hermes (this said) returns the airy way He came; but cold amazement doth surprise Aeneas' speechless tongue and fixed eyes His pious fears urge him in haste to fly The too-lov'd land and dear captivity. But this resolv'd, what way is left t'infuse Th' unhappy Queen with this unwelcome news? A thousand counsels wander in his mind, Now here, now there, successively inclin'd; This he prefers, he calls Eurylochus, The bold Cloanthus, trusted Mnestheus, Gives them in charge that they the fleet prepare, Gather their troops, but yet disguise their care; That he, meanwhile, will to the Queen impart At some fit time his much divided heart: Or when his canvas-wings are spread to fly, Impute to heav'n the sad necessity. Thus he resolves, and thus commands these peers, But nothing can escape the wakeful fears Of the enamour'd Queen, whose tender breast Presages all, by the first change imprest, Before the ill arrives. Already fame (Which lately did the Libyan Prince inflame) Now takes delight to spread this ill report, That the glad Phrygians to their ships resort, Preparing flight. The jealous Queen pursues Through every part the much-amazing news. The more she hears, the more enrag'd with grief, She thus at last invades the Trojan chief. 'Could thy dissembling heart consent to fly This hatred land in cruel secrecy? Perfidious man, canst thou so soon remove The bands of vows, and dearer bands of love? Nor spare one word? nor shed one tear, to save My life descending to the cruel grave? Why yet in winter to the storming main Dost thou expose thy wandering fleet again? Cruel and false! didst thou not seek a land Unknown? Did now the ancient Ilium stand, Were this a time through hazards such as these To seek thy Troy, through winter winds and seas? Whom dost thou fly? By these unfeigned tears I do adjure thee, by these loving fears, By my own life, or (what is more) by thine, By all that hath oblig'd thee yet of mine, Pity my fall, and show at least some grace To these my pray'rs, if pray'rs may yet have place. For thee, the hate and envy I support Of the Numidians and the Libyan court; For thee I have displeas'd my own, and lost That modesty, which I alone could boast; That better fame, by which I had surviv'd My funeral fire, and after death had liv'd. What have I left, or whither shall I fly? Shall I attend Pygmalion's cruelty? Or 'till Iarbas do in fetters lead The proud despiser of his love and bed? I never could have thought myself undone, Had but kind heaven indulg'd me with a son Resembling thee, in whose (though childish) face I might retrieve thy look and princely grace.' Sad Dido pauses here. The Trojan chief Restrains within the motions of his grief, Then thus replies: 'You never can repeat, Great Queen, the sum of my unquestion'd debt. Nor while my active soul informs this frame, Ever shall I forget Eliza's name. I urge no more, let it suffice that I In thankless silence never meant to fly; Nor did I ever to those bonds pretend Which now you charge me as a faithless friend; Had I been trusted to design my fate, When Troy betray'd fell by the Grecians' hate, I from the ashes of that dear-lov'd town Had there restor'd another Ilium. But now the Lycian oracle commands, Apollo now assigns th' Ausonian lands, And thither bids us send our thoughts and care, And only fix our expectation there. Fair Carthage you and your own work survey, A stranger born, a foreign sceptre sway. And shall it be a crime (alas!) if we Desire at last to rest in Italy? No night doth pass in which I do not see The old Anchises' image beck'ning me; Nor is there day in which I not reflect On my Ascanius, and that lov'd aspect To whom by fate th' Hesperian town is due. Hither of late Jove's winged herald flew, Nor did he in delusive dreams appear; Awake, I did the angry message hear. Then, fairest Queen, do not this fate withstand: Unwillingly I leave your happy land.' While thus he talks, the much-distemper'd dame, Incenst within, breaks forth into this flame. 'Nor wert thou of the gentle goddess' breed, Nor art thou sprung from great Anchises' seed, Perfidious man! but from some savage stock, Hewn from the marble of some mountain rock. For why should I disguise this height of ill, And still deceiv'd, expect new favour still? Did he let fall one pitying word, one tear? Or did he with one sigh my passion hear? What shall I do? for now, alas! I see That neither Juno deigns to favour me, Nor Jove himself looks down with equal eyes, The earth is faithless, faithless are the skies. Shipwreck'd and cast upon the barren shore, Pursu'd by cruel fates, forsaken, poor, I gave thee harbour in my simple breast; Ah! ill-advis'd, ah! too-unmindful guest. I sav'd thy fleet, thy friends, and faithless thee, But now (forsooth) Apollo's augury, The oracles are urged to incite, And angry Jove commands thy sudden flight. Is heav'n concern'd; doth care of human fate Disturb the calmness of th' immortal state? Thou hear'st me not, regardless of my cry: Go then, and through the seas seek Italy; Through the deaf seas, and through the angry wind, And such compassion as thou usest find: There may'st thou call on Dido's name in vain; I'll follow thee, be present in thy pain: And when cold death shall this mixt frame divide, My ghost shall lacquey by thy frighted side. Thou dearly shalt repent; the news of this Shall overtake my soul, and give it bliss.' Nor waiting answer from the Prince she flies, And wishes she had power to shun all eyes; But fainting soon, and to her chamber led, She threw herself upon her ivory bed. Pious Aeneas, though his noble breast, Soft'ned by love, was with much grief opprest, Though fain he would with gentle words assuage The Queen's high passion, and divert her rage, Suspends not yet his heaven-inspired care, But does his fleet without delay prepare. The Trojans ply the work, the busy main Is fill'd with noise, the ships now float again: On every side are seen descending down Long troops, which bring provision from the town. So when the winter-fearing ants invade Some heaps of corn the husbandman had made, The sable army marches, and with prey Laden return, pressing the leafy way, Some help the weaker, and their shoulders lend, Others the order of the march attend, Bring up the troops, and punish all delay. What were thy thoughts, sad Dido, on that day? How deep thy sighs? when from thy tower above Thou seest the Phrygians in such order move, And hear'st the tumult of the clamorous sea? All-conquering love! who can resist thy sway? Once more the Queen to humble tears descends, And language to her grief once more she lends, That she might leave no remedy untried, Nor counsel unexplor'd, before she died. 'Anna,' she said, 'thou seest the peopled sea, The Phrygians now their fatal anchors weigh Ready to loose; I feel their great chief's scorn, Which, if foreseen, I might perhaps have borne. But now I make this one, this last request: You in this faithless man have interest; You know his gentlest times, and best can find What ways are left to mollify his mind. Go then, and use all pity-moving art, And, if you can, soften his harder heart. Not I at Aulis did with Greece conspire, Nor did I bring one brand to Troy's last fire; I never rent Anchises' honour'd tomb: Why should he then my sad entreaty shun? I do not urge (as once) our marriage ties, Those sacred bonds which now he does despise; Nor that he would fair Italy resign: I only ask respite, and breathing time, 'Till my dejected mind learn to comply (Taught by degrees) with so great misery.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IMAGINARY ANCESTORS: THE GIRAFFE WOMAN OF BURMA by MADELINE DEFREES THE CENTER OF GRAVITY by DAVID IGNATOW SUGGESTED BY THE COVER OF A VOLUME OF KEATS'S POEMS by AMY LOWELL THE BETTER PART by MATTHEW ARNOLD |