Aeneid Book 4 — The Tragedy of Dido

With these words she fanned into flame the queen’s love-enkindled heart, put hope in her wavering mind, and loosed the bonds of shame.

First they visit the shrines and sue for peace at every altar; duly they slay chosen sheep to Ceres the law-giver, to Phoebus and father Lyaeus, above all to Juno, guardian of the bonds of marriage.

Dido herself, matchless in beauty, with cup in hand, pours libation midway between the horns of a white heifer, or in presence of the gods moves slowly to the rich altars, and day by day renews her gifts, then, gazing into the opened breasts of victims, consults the quivering entrails.

Ah, the blind souls of seers!

Of what avail are vows or shrines to one wild with love?

All the while the flame devours her tender heartstrings, and deep in her breast lives the silent wound.

Unhappy Dido burns, and through the city wanders in frenzy – even as a hind, smitten by an arrow, which, all unwary, amid the Cretan woods, a shepherd hunting with darts has pierced from afar, leaving in her the winged steel, unknowing: she in flight ranges the Dictaean woods and glades, but fast to her side clings the deadly shaft.

Now through the city’s midst she leads Aeneas with her, and displays her Sidonian wealth and the city built; she begins to speak and stops with the word half-spoken.

Now, as day wanes, she seeks that same banquet, again in her madness craves to hear the sorrows of Ilium and again hangs on the speaker’s lips.

Then when all have gone their ways, and in turn the dim moon sinks her light, and the setting stars invite sleep, alone she mourns in the empty hall, and falls on the couch he has left.

Though absent, each from each, she hears him, she sees him, or, captivated by his look of his father, she holds Ascanius on her lap, in case she may beguile a passion beyond all utterance.

No longer rise the towers begun, no longer do the

youth exercise in arms, or toil at havens or bulwarks

for safety in war; the works are broken off and

idle – great menacing walls

and cranes that touch the sky.

Meanwhile in the sky begins the turmoil of a wild uproar; rain follows, mingled with hail.

The scattered Tyrian train and the Trojan youth, with the Dardan grandson of Venus, in their fear seek shelter here and there over the fields; torrents rush down from the heights.

To the same cave come Dido and the Trojan chief.

Primal Earth and nuptial Juno give the sign; fires flashed in Heaven, the witness to their bridal, and on the mountaintop screamed the Nymphs.

That day the first of death, the first of calamity was cause.

For no more is Dido swayed by fair

show or fair fame, no more does she

dream of a secret love: she calls it marriage and with that name veils her sin.

At once Rumour runs through Libya’s great cities – Rumour the swiftest of all evils.

Speed lends her strength, and she winds vigour as she goes; small at first through fear, soon she mounts up to heaven, and walks the ground with head hidden in the clouds.

Mother Earth, provoked to anger against the gods, brought her forth last, they, say as sister to Coeus and Enceladus, swift of foot and fleet of wing, a monster awful and huge, who for the many feathers in her body has as many watchful eyes beneath – wondrous to tell – as many tongues, as many sounding mouths, as many pricked-up ears.

By night, midway between heaven and earth, she flies through the gloom, screeching, and droops not her eyes in sweet sleep; by day she sits on guard on high rooftop or lofty turrets, and affrights great cities, clinging to the false and the wrong, yet heralding truth.

Now exulting in manifold gossip, she filled the nations and sang alike of fact and falsehood, how Aeneas is come, one born of Trojan blood, to whom in marriage fair Dido deigns to join herself; now they while away the winter, all its length, in wanton ease together, heedless of their realms and enthralled by shameless passion.

These tales the foul goddess spreads here and there upon the lips of men.

Straightway

to

King

Iarbas

she

bends

her

course,

and

with

her

words

fires

his

spirit

and

heaps

high

his wrath.

“’False one!

Did you really hope to cloak so foul a crime, and to steal from my land in silence?

Does neither our love restrain you, nor the pledge once given, nor the doom of a cruel death for Dido?

Even in the winter season do you actually hasten to labour at your fleet, and to journey over the sea in the midst of northern gales, heartless one?

What!

If you were not in quest of alien lands and homes unknown, were ancient Troy yet standing, would Troy be sought by your ships over stormy seas?

Is it from me you are fleeing?

By these tears and your right hand, I pray you – since nothing else, alas, have I left myself – by the marriage that is ours, by the nuptial rites begun, if ever I deserved well of you, or if anything of mine has been sweet in your sight, pity a falling house, and if yet there be any room for prayers, put away, I pray, this purpose.

Because of you the Libyan tribes and Numidian chiefs hate me, the Tyrians are my foes; because of you I have also lost my honour and that former fame by which alone I was winning a title to the stars.

To whose mercy do you leave me on the point of death, guest – since that alone is left from the name of husband?

Why do I linger?

Is it till Pygmalion, my brother, overthrow this city, or the Gaetulian Iarbas lead me captive?

At least,

if before your

flight a

child of yours

had been

born to me,

if in my

hall a baby

Aeneas were playing, whose face,

in spite of

all, would bring

back yours, I should not

think myself utterly

vanquished and forlorn.”

She ceased: he by Jove’s command held his eyes steadfast and with a struggle smothered the pain deep within his heart.

At last he briefly replies: “I will never deny, Queen, that you have deserved of me the utmost you can set forth in speech, nor shall my memory of Elissa be bitter, while I have memory of myself, and while breath governs these limbs.

For my conduct few words will I say.

I did not hope – think not that – to veil my flight in stealth.

I never held out a bridegroom’s torch or entered such a compact.

Had destiny permitted me to shape my life after my own pleasure and order my sorrows at my own will, my first care would be the city of Troy and the sweet relics of my king.

Priam’s high house would still abide and my own hand would have set up a revived Pergamus for the vanquished.