BOOK IV

      But anxious cares already seiz’d the queen:

      She fed within her veins a flame unseen;

      The hero’s valor, acts, and birth inspire

      Her soul with love, and fan the secret fire.

      His words, his looks, imprinted in her heart,

      Improve the passion, and increase the smart.

      Now, when the purple morn had chas’d away

      The dewy shadows, and restor’d the day,

      Her sister first with early care she sought,

      And thus in mournful accents eas’d her thought:

      “My dearest Anna, what new dreams affright

      My lab’ring soul! what visions of the night

      Disturb my quiet, and distract my breast

      With strange ideas of our Trojan guest!

      His worth, his actions, and majestic air,

      A man descended from the gods declare.

      Fear ever argues a degenerate kind;

      His birth is well asserted by his mind.

      Then, what he suffer’d, when by Fate betray’d!

      What brave attempts for falling Troy he made!

      Such were his looks, so gracefully he spoke,

      That, were I not resolv’d against the yoke

      Of hapless marriage, never to be curst

      With second love, so fatal was my first,

      To this one error I might yield again;

      For, since Sichaeus was untimely slain,

      This only man is able to subvert

      The fix’d foundations of my stubborn heart.

      And, to confess my frailty, to my shame,

      Somewhat I find within, if not the same,

      Too like the sparkles of my former flame.

      But first let yawning earth a passage rend,

      And let me thro’ the dark abyss descend;

      First let avenging Jove, with flames from high,

      Drive down this body to the nether sky,

      Condemn’d with ghosts in endless night to lie,

      Before I break the plighted faith I gave!

      No! he who had my vows shall ever have;

      For, whom I lov’d on earth, I worship in the grave.”

      She said: the tears ran gushing from her eyes,

      And stopp’d her speech. Her sister thus replies:

      “O dearer than the vital air I breathe,

      Will you to grief your blooming years bequeath,

      Condemn’d to waste in woes your lonely life,

      Without the joys of mother or of wife?

      Think you these tears, this pompous train of woe,

      Are known or valued by the ghosts below?

      I grant that, while your sorrows yet were green,

      It well became a woman, and a queen,

      The vows of Tyrian princes to neglect,

      To scorn Hyarbas, and his love reject,

      With all the Libyan lords of mighty name;

      But will you fight against a pleasing flame!

      This little spot of land, which Heav’n bestows,

      On ev’ry side is hemm’d with warlike foes;

      Gaetulian cities here are spread around,

      And fierce Numidians there your frontiers bound;

      Here lies a barren waste of thirsty land,

      And there the Syrtes raise the moving sand;

      Barcaean troops besiege the narrow shore,

      And from the sea Pygmalion threatens more.

      Propitious Heav’n, and gracious Juno, lead

      This wand’ring navy to your needful aid:

      How will your empire spread, your city rise,

      From such a union, and with such allies?

      Implore the favor of the pow’rs above,

      And leave the conduct of the rest to love.

      Continue still your hospitable way,

      And still invent occasions of their stay,

      Till storms and winter winds shall cease to threat,

      And planks and oars repair their shatter’d fleet.”

      These words, which from a friend and sister came,

      With ease resolv’d the scruples of her fame,

      And added fury to the kindled flame.

      Inspir’d with hope, the project they pursue;

      On ev’ry altar sacrifice renew:

      A chosen ewe of two years old they pay

      To Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Day;

      Preferring Juno’s pow’r, for Juno ties

      The nuptial knot and makes the marriage joys.

      The beauteous queen before her altar stands,

      And holds the golden goblet in her hands.

      A milk-white heifer she with flow’rs adorns,

      And pours the ruddy wine betwixt her horns;

      And, while the priests with pray’r the gods invoke,

      She feeds their altars with Sabaean smoke,

      With hourly care the sacrifice renews,

      And anxiously the panting entrails views.

      What priestly rites, alas! what pious art,

      What vows avail to cure a bleeding heart!

      A gentle fire she feeds within her veins,

      Where the soft god secure in silence reigns.

      Sick with desire, and seeking him she loves,

      From street to street the raving Dido roves.

      So when the watchful shepherd, from the blind,

      Wounds with a random shaft the careless hind,

      Distracted with her pain she flies the woods,

      Bounds o’er the lawn, and seeks the silent floods,

      With fruitless care; for still the fatal dart