The Aeneids of Virgil Part 9

O evil Love, where wilt thou not drive on a mortal breast?

Lo, she is driven to weep again and pray him to be kind, And suppliant, in the bonds of love her lofty heart to bind, Lest she should leave some way untried and die at last for nought.

"Anna, thou seest the strand astir, the men together brought From every side, the canvas spread calling the breezes down.

While joyful on the quarter-deck the sea-folk lay the crown.

Sister, since I had might to think that such a thing could be, I shall have might to bear it now: yet do one thing for me, 420 Poor wretch, O Anna: for to thee alone would he be kind, That traitor, and would trust to thee the inmost of his mind; And thou alone his softening ways and melting times dost know.

O sister, speak a suppliant word to that high-hearted foe: I never swore at Aulis there to pluck up root and branch The Trojan folk; for Pergamus no war-ship did I launch: Anchises' buried ghost from tomb I never tore away: Why will his ears be ever deaf to any word I say?

Where hurrieth he? O let him give his wretched love one gift; Let him but wait soft sailing-tide, when fair the breezes shift. 430 No longer for the wedding past, undone, I make my prayer, Nor that he cast his lordship by, and promised Latium fair.

For empty time, for rest and stay of madness now I ask, Till Fortune teach the overthrown to learn her weary task.

Sister, I pray this latest grace; O pity me today, And manifold when I am dead the gift will I repay."

So prayed she: such unhappy words of weeping Anna bears, And bears again and o'er again: but him no weeping stirs, Nor any voice he hearkeneth now may turn him from his road: G.o.d shut the hero's steadfast ears; fate in the way abode. 440 As when against a mighty oak, strong growth of many a year, On this side and on that the blasts of Alpine Boreas bear, Contending which shall root it up: forth goes the roar, deep lie The driven leaves upon the earth from shaken bole on high.

But fast it clingeth to the crag, and high as goes its head To heaven aloft, so deep adown to h.e.l.l its roots are spread.

E'en so by ceaseless drift of words the hero every wise Is battered, and the heavy care deep in his bosom lies; Steadfast the will abides in him; the tears fall down for nought.

Ah, and unhappy Dido then the very death besought, 450 Outworn by fate: the hollow heaven has grown a sight to grieve.

And for the helping of her will, that she the light may leave, She seeth, when mid the frankincense her offering she would lay, The holy water blackening there, O horrible to say!

The wine poured forth turned into blood all loathly as it fell.

Which sight to none, not e'en unto her sister, would she tell.

Moreover, to her first-wed lord there stood amidst the house A marble shrine, the which she loved with worship marvellous, And bound it was with snowy wool and leaf.a.ge of delight; 459 Thence heard she, when the earth was held in mirky hand of night, Strange sounds come forth, and words as if her husband called his own.

And o'er and o'er his funeral song the screech-owl wailed alone, And long his lamentable tale from high aloft was rolled.

And many a saying furthermore of G.o.d-loved seers of old Fears her with dreadful memory: all wild amid her dreams Cruel aeneas drives her on, and evermore she seems Left all alone; and evermore a road that never ends, Mateless, and seeking through the waste her Tyrian folk, she wends.

As raving Pentheus saw the rout of that Well-willing Folk, When twofold sun and twofold Thebes upon his eyes outbroke: 470 Or like as Agamemnon's son is driven across the stage, Fleeing his mother's fiery hand that bears the serpent's rage, While there the avenging Dreadful Ones upon the threshold sit.

But when she gave the horror birth, and, grief-worn, cherished it, And doomed her death, then with herself she planned its time and guise, And to her sister sorrowing sore spake word in such a wise, Covering her end with cheerful face and calm and hopeful brow: "Kinswoman, I have found a way, (joy with thy sister now!) Whereby to bring him back to me or let me loose from him.

Adown beside the setting sun, hard on the ocean's rim, 480 Lies the last world of aethiops, where Atlas mightiest grown Upon his shoulder turns the pole with burning stars bestrown.

A priestess thence I met erewhile, come of Ma.s.sylian seed, The warden of the West-maid's fane, and wont the worm to feed, Mingling for him the honey-juice with poppies bearing sleep, Whereby she maketh shift on tree the hallowed bough to keep.

She by enchantment takes in hand to loose what hearts she will, But other ones at need will she with heavy sorrows fill; And she hath craft to turn the stars and back the waters beat, Call up the ghosts that fare by night, make earth beneath thy feet 490 Cry out, and ancient ash-trees draw the mountain-side adown.

Dear heart, I swear upon the G.o.ds, I swear on thee, mine own And thy dear head, that I am loath with magic craft to play.

But privily amid the house a bale for burning lay 'Neath the bare heaven, and pile on it the arms that evil one Left in the chamber: all he wore, the bridal bed whereon My days were lost: for so 'tis good: the priestess showeth me All tokens of the wicked man must perish utterly."

No more she spake, but with the word her face grew deadly white.

But Anna sees not how she veiled her death with new-found rite, 500 Nor any thought of such a deed her heart encompa.s.seth; Nor fears she heavier things to come than at Sychaeus' death.

Wherefore she takes the charge in hand.

But now the Queen, that bale being built amid the inner house 'Neath the bare heavens, piled high with fir and cloven oak enow, Hangeth the garlands round the place, and crowns the bale with bough That dead men use: the weed he wore, his very effigy, His sword, she lays upon the bed, well knowing what shall be.

There stand the altars, there the maid, wild with her scattered hair, Calls Chaos, Erebus, and those three hundred G.o.dheads there, 510 And Hecate triply fashioned to maiden Dian's look; Water she scattered, would-be wave of dark Avernus' brook; And herbs she brought, by brazen shears 'neath moonlight harvested, All downy-young, though inky milk of venomed ill they shed.

She brings the love-charm s.n.a.t.c.hed away from brow of new-born foal Ere yet the mother s.n.a.t.c.heth it.

Dido herself the altars nigh, meal in her hallowed hands, With one foot of its bindings bare, and ungirt raiment stands, And dying calls upon the G.o.ds, and stars that fateful fare; And then if any G.o.dhead is, mindful and just to care 520 For unloved lovers, unto that she sendeth up the prayer.

Now night it was, and everything on earth had won the grace Of quiet sleep: the woods had rest, the wildered waters' face: It was the tide when stars roll on amid their courses due, And all the tilth is hushed, and beasts, and birds of many a hue; And all that is in waters wide, and what the waste doth keep In thicket rough, amid the hush of night-tide lay asleep, And slipping off the load of care forgat their toilsome part.

But ne'er might that Phoenician Queen, that most unhappy heart, Sink into sleep, or take the night unto her eyes and breast: 530 Her sorrows grow, and love again swells up with all unrest, And ever midst her troubled wrath rolls on a mighty tide; And thus she broods and turns it o'er and o'er on every side.

"Ah, whither now? Shall I bemocked my early lovers try, And go Numidian wedlock now on bended knee to buy: I, who so often scorned to take their bridal-bearing hands?

Or shall I, following Ilian ships, bear uttermost commands Of Teucrian men, because my help their lightened hearts makes kind; Because the thank for deed I did lies ever on their mind?

But if I would, who giveth leave, or takes on scornful keel 540 The hated thing? Thou knowest not, lost wretch, thou may'st not feel, What treason of Laomedon that folk for ever bears.

What then? and shall I follow lone the joyous mariners?

Or, hedged with all my Tyrian host, upon them shall I bear, Driving again across the sea those whom I scarce might tear From Sidon's city, forcing them to spread their sails abroad?

Nay, stay thy grief with steel, and die, and reap thy due reward!

Thou, sister, conquered by my tears, wert first this bane to lay On my mad soul, and cast my heart in that destroyer's way.

Why was I not allowed to live without the bridal bed, 550 Sackless and free as beasts afield, with no woes wearied?

Why kept I not the faith of old to my Sychaeus sworn?"

Such wailing of unhappy words from out her breast was torn.

aeneas on the lofty deck meanwhile, a.s.sured of flight, Was winning sleep, since every need of his was duly dight; When lo! amid the dreams of sleep that shape of G.o.d come back, Seemed once again to warn him thus: nor yet the face did lack Nor anything of Mercury; both voice and hue was there, And loveliness of youthful limbs and length of yellow hair: 559 "O G.o.ddess-born, and canst thou sleep through such a tide as this?

And seest thou not how round about the peril gathered is?

And, witless, hear'st not Zephyr blow with gentle, happy wind?

For treason now and dreadful deed she turneth in her mind, a.s.sured of death; and diversely the tide of wrath sets in.

Why fleest thou not in haste away, while haste is yet to win?

Thou shalt behold the sea beat up with oar-blade, and the brand Gleam dire against thee, and one flame shall run adown the strand, If thee tomorrow's dawn shall take still lingering on this sh.o.r.e.

Up! tarry not! for woman's heart is shifting evermore."

So saying, amid the mirk of night he mingled and was lost. 570 And therewithal aeneas, feared by sudden-flitting ghost, s.n.a.t.c.hing his body forth from sleep, stirs up his folk at need: "Wake ye, and hurry now, O men! get to the thwarts with speed, And bustle to unfurl the sails! here sent from heaven again A G.o.d hath spurred us on to flight, and biddeth hew atwain The hempen twine. O holy G.o.d, we follow on thy way, Whatso thou art; and glad once more thy bidding we obey.

O be with us! give gracious aid; set stars the heaven about To bless our ways!"

And from the sheath his lightning sword flew out E'en as he spake: with naked blade he smote the hawser through, 580 And all are kindled at his flame; they hurry and they do.

The sh.o.r.e is left, with crowd of keels the sight of sea is dim; Eager they whirl the spray aloft, as o'er the blue they skim.

And now Aurora left alone t.i.thonus' saffron bed, And first light of another day across the world she shed.

But when the Queen from tower aloft beheld the dawn grow white, And saw the ships upon their way with fair sails trimmed aright, And all the haven shipless left, and reach of empty strand, Then thrice and o'er again she smote her fair breast with her hand, And rent her yellow hair, and cried, "Ah, Jove! and is he gone? 590 And shall a very stranger mock the lordship I have won?

Why arm they not? Why gather not from all the town in chase?

Ho ye! why run ye not the ships down from their standing-place?

Quick, bring the fire! shake out the sails! hard on the oars to sea!

--What words are these, or where am I? What madness changeth me?

Unhappy Dido! now at last thine evil deed strikes home.

Ah, better when thou mad'st him lord--lo whereunto are come His faith and troth who erst, they say, his country's house-G.o.ds held The while he took upon his back his father spent with eld? 599 Why! might I not have shred him up, and scattered him piecemeal About the sea, and slain his friends, his very son, with steel, Ascanius on his father's board for dainty meat to lay?

But doubtful, say ye, were the fate of battle? Yea, O yea!

What might I fear, who was to die?--if I had borne the fire Among their camp, and filled his decks with flame, and son and sire Quenched with their whole folk, and myself had cast upon it all!

--O Sun, whose flames on every deed earth doeth ever fall, O Juno, setter-forth and seer of these our many woes, Hecate, whose name howled out a-nights o'er city crossway goes, Avenging Dread Ones, G.o.ds that guard Elissa perishing, 610 O hearken! turn your might most meet against the evil thing!

O hearken these our prayers! and if the doom must surely stand, And he, the wicked head, must gain the port and swim aland, If Jove demand such fixed fate and every change doth bar, Yet let him faint mid weapon-strife and hardy folk of war!

And let him, exiled from his house, torn from Iulus, wend, Beseeching help mid wretched death of many and many a friend.

And when at last he yieldeth him to pact of grinding peace, Then short-lived let his lordship be, and loved life's increase.

And let him fall before his day, unburied on the sh.o.r.e! 620 Lo this I pray, this last of words forth with my blood I pour.

And ye, O Tyrians, 'gainst his race that is, and is to be, Feed full your hate! When I am dead send down this gift to me: No love betwixt the peoples twain, no troth for anything!

And thou, Avenger of my wrongs, from my dead bones outspring, To bear the fire and the sword o'er Dardan-peopled earth Now or hereafter; whensoe'er the day brings might to birth.

I pray the sh.o.r.e against the sh.o.r.e, the sea against the sea, The sword 'gainst sword--fight ye that are, and ye that are to be!"

So sayeth she, and everywise she turns about her mind 630 How ending of the loathed light she speediest now may find.

And few words unto Barce spake, Sychaeus' nurse of yore; For the black ashes held her own upon the ancient sh.o.r.e: "Dear nurse, my sister Anna now bring hither to my need, And bid her for my sprinkling-tide the running water speed; And bid her have the hosts with her, and due atoning things: So let her come; but thou, thine head bind with the holy strings; For I am minded now to end what I have set afoot, And worship duly Stygian Jove and all my cares uproot; Setting the flame beneath the bale of that Dardanian head." 640

She spake; with hurrying of eld the nurse her footsteps sped.

But Dido, trembling, wild at heart with her most dread intent, Rolling her blood-shot eyes about, her quivering cheeks besprent With burning flecks, and otherwhere dead white with death drawn nigh Burst through the inner doorways there and clomb the bale on high, Fulfilled with utter madness now, and bared the Dardan blade, Gift given not for such a work, for no such ending made.

There, when upon the Ilian gear her eyen had been set, And bed well known, 'twixt tears and thoughts awhile she lingered yet; Then brooding low upon the bed her latest word she spake: 650

"O raiment dear to me while G.o.ds and fate allowed, now take This soul of mine and let me loose from all my woes at last!

I, I have lived, and down the way fate showed to me have pa.s.sed; And now a mighty shade of me shall go beneath the earth!

A glorious city have I raised, and brought my walls to birth, Avenged my husband, made my foe, my brother, pay the pain: Happy, ah, happy overmuch were all my life-days' gain, If never those Dardanian keels had drawn our sh.o.r.es anigh."

She spake: her lips lay on the bed: "Ah, unavenged to die!

But let me die! Thus, thus 'tis good to go into the night! 660 Now let the cruel Dardan eyes drink in the bale-fire's light, And bear for sign across the sea this token of my death."

Her speech had end: but on the steel, amid the last word's breath, They see her fallen; along the blade they see her blood foam out, And all her hands besprent therewith: wild fly the shrieks about The lofty halls, and Rumour runs mad through the smitten town.