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heart.

      And now she leads the Trojan chief along

      The lofty walls, amidst the busy throng;

      Displays her Tyrian wealth, and rising town,

      Which love, without his labor, makes his own.

      This pomp she shows, to tempt her wand’ring guest;

      Her falt’ring tongue forbids to speak the rest.

      When day declines, and feasts renew the night,

      Still on his face she feeds her famish’d sight;

      She longs again to hear the prince relate

      His own adventures and the Trojan fate.

      He tells it o’er and o’er; but still in vain,

      For still she begs to hear it once again.

      The hearer on the speaker’s mouth depends,

      And thus the tragic story never ends.

      Then, when they part, when Phoebe’s paler light

      Withdraws, and falling stars to sleep invite,

      She last remains, when ev’ry guest is gone,

      Sits on the bed he press’d, and sighs alone;

      Absent, her absent hero sees and hears;

      Or in her bosom young Ascanius bears,

      And seeks the father’s image in the child,

      If love by likeness might be so beguil’d.

      Meantime the rising tow’rs are at a stand;

      No labors exercise the youthful band,

      Nor use of arts, nor toils of arms they know;

      The mole is left unfinish’d to the foe;

      The mounds, the works, the walls, neglected lie,

      Short of their promis’d heighth, that seem’d to threat the sky.

      But when imperial Juno, from above,

      Saw Dido fetter’d in the chains of love,

      Hot with the venom which her veins inflam’d,

      And by no sense of shame to be reclaim’d,

      With soothing words to Venus she begun:

      “High praises, endless honors, you have won,

      And mighty trophies, with your worthy son!

      Two gods a silly woman have undone!

      Nor am I ignorant, you both suspect

      This rising city, which my hands erect:

      But shall celestial discord never cease?

      ’Tis better ended in a lasting peace.

      You stand possess’d of all your soul desir’d:

      Poor Dido with consuming love is fir’d.

      Your Trojan with my Tyrian let us join;

      So Dido shall be yours, Aeneas mine:

      One common kingdom, one united line.

      Eliza shall a Dardan lord obey,

      And lofty Carthage for a dow’r convey.”

      Then Venus, who her hidden fraud descried,

      Which would the scepter of the world misguide

      To Libyan shores, thus artfully replied:

      “Who, but a fool, would wars with Juno choose,

      And such alliance and such gifts refuse,

      If Fortune with our joint desires comply?

      The doubt is all from Jove and destiny;

      Lest he forbid, with absolute command,

      To mix the people in one common land—

      Or will the Trojan and the Tyrian line

      In lasting leagues and sure succession join?

      But you, the partner of his bed and throne,

      May move his mind; my wishes are your own.”

      “Mine,” said imperial Juno, “be the care;

      Time urges, now, to perfect this affair:

      Attend my counsel, and the secret share.

      When next the Sun his rising light displays,

      And gilds the world below with purple rays,

      The queen, Aeneas, and the Tyrian court

      Shall to the shady woods, for sylvan game, resort.

      There, while the huntsmen pitch their toils around,

      And cheerful horns from side to side resound,

      A pitchy cloud shall cover all the plain

      With hail, and thunder, and tempestuous rain;

      The fearful train shall take their speedy flight,

      Dispers’d, and all involv’d in gloomy night;

      One cave a grateful shelter shall afford

      To the fair princess and the Trojan lord.

      I will myself the bridal bed prepare,

      If you, to bless the nuptials, will be there:

      So shall their loves be crown’d with due delights,

      And Hymen shall be present at the rites.”

      The Queen of Love consents, and closely smiles

      At her vain project, and discover’d wiles.

      The rosy morn was risen from the main,

      And horns and hounds awake the princely train:

      They issue early thro’ the city gate,

      Where the more wakeful huntsmen ready wait,

      With nets, and toils, and darts, beside the force

      Of Spartan dogs, and swift Massylian horse.

      The Tyrian peers and officers of state

      For the slow queen in antechambers wait;

      Her lofty courser, in the court below,

      Who his majestic rider seems to know,

      Proud of his purple trappings, paws the ground,

      And champs the golden bit, and spreads the foam around.

      The queen at length appears; on either hand

      The brawny guards in martial order stand.

      A flow’r’d simar with golden fringe she wore,

      And at her back a golden quiver bore;

      Her flowing hair a golden caul restrains,

      A golden clasp the Tyrian robe sustains.

      Then young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,

      Leads on the Trojan youth to view the chase.

      But far above the rest in beauty shines

      The great Aeneas, the troop he joins;

      Like fair Apollo, when he leaves the frost

      Of wint’ry Xanthus, and the Lycian coast,

      When to his native Delos he resorts,

      Ordains the dances, and renews the sports;

      Where painted Scythians, mix’d with Cretan bands,

      Before the joyful altars join their hands:

      Himself,

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