The nurse moves onward, with officious care,And all the speed her aged limbs can bear.But furious Dido, with dark thoughts involv’d,Shook at the mighty mischief she resolv’d.With livid spots distinguish’d was her face;Red were her rolling eyes, and discompos’d her pace;Ghastly she gaz’d, with pain she drew her breath,And nature shiver’d at approaching death.
Then swiftly to the fatal place she pass’d,And mounts the fun’ral pile with furious haste;Unsheathes the sword the Trojan left behind(Not for so dire an enterprise design’d).But when she view’d the garments loosely spread,Which once he wore, and saw the conscious bed,She paus’d, and with a sigh the robes embrac’d;Then on the couch her trembling body cast,Repress’d the ready tears, and spoke her last:“Dear pledges of my love, while Heav’n so pleas’d,Receive a soul, of mortal anguish eas’d:My fatal course is finish’d; and I go,A glorious name, among the ghosts below.A lofty city by my hands is rais’d,Pygmalion punish’d, and my lord appeas’d.What could my fortune have afforded more,Had the false Trojan never touch’d my shore!”Then kiss’d the couch; and, “Must I die,” she said,“And unreveng’d? ’Tis doubly to be dead!Yet ev’n this death with pleasure I receive:On any terms, ’tis better than to live.These flames, from far, may the false Trojan view;These boding omens his base flight pursue!”
She said, and struck; deep enter’d in her sideThe piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed:Clogg’d in the wound the cruel weapon stands;The spouting blood came streaming on her hands.Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke,And with loud cries the sounding palace shook.Distracted, from the fatal sight they fled,And thro’ the town the dismal rumour spread.First from the frighted court the yell began;Redoubled, thence from house to house it ran:The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and criesOf mixing women, mount the vaulted skies.Not less the clamour, than if ancient Tyre,Or the new Carthage, set by foes on fire,The rolling ruin, with their lov’d abodes,Involv’d the blazing temples of their gods.
Her sister hears; and, furious with despair,She beats her breast, and rends her yellow hair,And, calling on Eliza’s name aloud,Runs breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd.“Was all that pomp of woe for this prepar’d;These fires, this fun’ral pile, these altars rear’d?Was all this train of plots contriv’d,” said she,“All only to deceive unhappy me?Which is the worst? Didst thou in death pretendTo scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend?Thy summon’d sister, and thy friend, had come;One sword had serv’d us both, one common tomb:Was I to raise the pile, the pow’rs invoke,Not to be present at the fatal stroke?At once thou hast destroy’d thyself and me,Thy town, thy senate, and thy colony!Bring water; bathe the wound; while I in deathLay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath.”This said, she mounts the pile with eager haste,And in her arms the gasping queen embrac’d;Her temples chaf’d; and her own garments tore,To stanch the streaming blood, and cleanse the gore.Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head,And, fainting thrice, fell grov’ling on the bed;Thrice op’d her heavy eyes, and sought the light,But, having found it, sicken’d at the sight,And clos’d her lids at last in endless night.
Then Juno, grieving that she should sustainA death so ling’ring, and so full of pain,Sent Iris down, to free her from the strifeOf lab’ring nature, and dissolve her life.For since she died, not doom’d by Heav’n’s decree,Or her own crime, but human casualty,And rage of love, that plung’d her in despair,The Sisters had not cut the topmost hair,Which Proserpine and they can only know;Nor made her sacred to the shades below.Downward the various goddess took her flight,And drew a thousand colours from the light;Then stood above the dying lover’s head,And said: “I thus devote thee to the dead.This off’ring to th’ infernal gods I bear.”Thus while she spoke, she cut the fatal hair:The struggling soul was loos’d, and life dissolv’d in air.
BOOK V
THE ARGUMENT.
Aeneas, setting sail from Afric, is driven by a storm on the coast of Sicily, where he is hospitably received by his friend Acestes, king of part of the island, and born of Trojan parentage. He applies himself to celebrate the memory of his father with divine honours, and accordingly institues funeral games, and appoints prizes for those who should conquer in them. While the ceremonies are performing, Juno sends Iris to persuade the Trojan woman to burn the ships, who, upon her instigation, set fire to them: which burned four, and would have consumed the rest, had not Jupiter, by a miraculous shower extinguished it. Upon this, Aeneas, by the advice of one of his generals, and a vision of his father, builds a city for the women, old men, and others, who were either unfit for war, or weary of the voyage, and sails for Italy. Venus procures of Neptune a safe voyage for him and all his men, excepting only his pilot Palinurus, who was unfortunately lost.
Meantime the Trojan cuts his wat’ry way,Fix’d on his voyage, thro’ the curling sea;Then, casting back his eyes, with dire amaze,Sees on the Punic shore the mounting blaze.The cause unknown; yet his presaging mindThe fate of Dido from the fire divin’d;He knew the stormy souls of womankind,What secret springs their eager passions move,How capable of death for injur’d love.Dire auguries from hence the Trojans draw;Till neither fires nor shining shores they saw.Now seas and skies their prospect only bound;An empty space above, a floating field around.But soon the heav’ns with shadows were o’erspread;A swelling cloud hung hov’ring o’er their head:Livid it look’d, the threat’ning of a storm:Then night and horror ocean’s face deform.The pilot, Palinurus, cried aloud:“What gusts of weather from that gath’ring cloudMy thoughts presage! Ere yet the tempest roars,Stand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars;Contract your swelling sails, and luff to wind.”The frighted crew perform the task assign’d.Then, to his fearless chief: “Not Heav’n,” said he,“Tho’ Jove himself should promise Italy,Can stem the torrent of this raging sea.Mark how the shifting winds from west arise,And what collected night involves the skies!Nor can our shaken vessels live at sea,Much less against the tempest force their way.’Tis fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey.Not far from hence, if I observ’d arightThe southing of the stars, and polar light,Sicilia lies, whose hospitable shoresIn safety we may reach with struggling oars.”Aeneas then replied: “Too sure I findWe strive in vain against the seas and wind:Now shift your sails; what place can please me moreThan what you promise, the Sicilian shore,Whose hallow’d earth Anchises’ bones contains,And where a prince of Trojan lineage reigns?”The course resolv’d, before the western windThey scud amain, and make the port assign’d.Meantime Acestes, from a lofty stand,Beheld the fleet descending on the land;And, not unmindful of his ancient race,Down from the cliff he ran with eager pace,And held the hero in a strict embrace.Of a rough Libyan bear the spoils he wore,And either hand a pointed jav’lin bore.His mother was a dame of Dardan blood;His sire Crinisus, a Sicilian flood.He welcomes his returning friends ashoreWith plenteous country cates and homely store.
Now, when the following morn had chas’d awayThe flying stars, and light restor’d the day,Aeneas call’d the Trojan troops around,And thus bespoke them from a rising ground:“Offspring of heav’n, divine Dardanian race!The sun, revolving thro’ th’ ethereal space,The shining circle of the year has fill’d,Since first this isle my father’s ashes held:And now the rising day renews the year;A day for ever sad, for ever dear.This would I celebrate with annual games,With gifts on altars pil’d, and holy flames,Tho’ banish’d to Gaetulia’s barren sands,Caught on the Grecian seas, or hostile lands:But since this happy storm our fleet has driv’n(Not, as I deem, without the will of Heav’n)Upon these friendly shores and flow’ry plains,Which hide Anchises and his blest remains,Let us with joy perform his honours due,And pray for prosp’rous winds, our voyage to renew;Pray, that in towns and temples of our own,The name of great Anchises may be known,And yearly games may spread the gods’ renown.Our sports Acestes, of the Trojan race,With royal gifts ordain’d, is pleas’d to grace:Two steers on ev’ry ship the king bestows;His gods and ours shall share your equal vows.Besides, if, nine days hence, the rosy mornShall with unclouded light the skies adorn,That day with solemn sports I mean to grace:Light galleys on the seas shall run a wat’ry race;Some shall in swiftness for the goal contend,And others try the twanging bow to bend;The strong, with iron gauntlets arm’d, shall standOppos’d in combat on the yellow sand.Let all be present at the games prepar’d,And joyful victors wait the just reward.But now assist the rites, with garlands crown’d.”He said, and first his brows with myrtle bound.Then Helymus, by his example led,And old Acestes, each adorn’d his head;Thus young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,His temples tied, and all the Trojan race.
Aeneas then advanc’d amidst the train,By thousands follow’d thro’ the flow’ry plain,To great Anchises’ tomb; which when he found,He pour’d to Bacchus, on the hallow’d ground,Two bowls of sparkling wine, of milk two more,And two from offer’d bulls of purple gore,With roses then the sepulcher he strow’dAnd thus his father’s ghost bespoke aloud:“Hail, O ye holy manes! hail again,Paternal ashes, now review’d in vain!The gods permitted not, that you, with me,Should reach the promis’d shores of Italy,Or Tiber’s flood, what flood soe’er it be.”Scarce had he finish’d, when, with speckled pride,A serpent from the tomb began to glide;His hugy bulk on sev’n high volumes roll’d;Blue was his breadth of back, but streak’d with scaly gold:Thus riding on his curls, he seem’d to passA rolling fire along, and singe the grass.More various colours thro’ his body run,Than Iris when her bow imbibes the sun.Betwixt the rising altars, and around,The sacred monster shot along the ground;With harmless play amidst the bowls he pass’d,And with his lolling tongue assay’d the taste:Thus fed with holy food, the wondrous guestWithin the hollow tomb retir’d to rest.The pious prince, surpris’d at what he view’d,The fun’ral honours with more zeal renew’d,Doubtful if this place’s genius were,Or guardian of his father’s sepulcher.Five sheep, according to the rites, he slew;As many swine, and steers of sable hue;New gen’rous wine he from the goblets pour’d.And call’d his father’s ghost, from hell restor’d.The glad attendants in long order come,Off’ring their gifts at great Anchises’ tomb:Some add more oxen: some divide the spoil;Some place the chargers on the grassy soil;Some blow the fires, and offered entrails broil.
Now came the day desir’d. The skies were brightWith rosy luster of the rising light:The bord’ring people, rous’d by sounding fameOf Trojan feasts and great Acestes’ name,The crowded shore with acclamations fill,Part to behold, and part to prove their skill.And first the gifts in public view they place,Green laurel wreaths, and palm, the victors’ grace:Within the circle, arms and tripods lie,Ingots of gold and silver, heap’d on high,And vests embroider’d, of the Tyrian dye.The trumpet’s clangour then the feast proclaims,And all prepare for their appointed games.Four galleys first, which equal rowers bear,Advancing, in the wat’ry lists appear.The speedy Dolphin, that outstrips the wind,Bore Mnestheus, author of the Memmian kind:Gyas the vast Chimaera’s bulk commands,Which rising, like a tow’ring city stands;Three Trojans tug at ev’ry lab’ring oar;Three banks in three degrees the sailors bore;Beneath their sturdy strokes the billows roar.Sergesthus, who began the Sergian race,In the great Centaur took the leading place;Cloanthus on the sea-green Scylla stood,From whom Cluentius draws his Trojan blood.
Far in the sea, against the foaming shore,There stands a rock: the raging billows roarAbove his head in storms; but, when ’tis clear,Uncurl their ridgy backs, and at his foot appear.In peace below the gentle waters run;The cormorants above lie basking in the sun.On this the hero fix’d an oak in sight,The mark to guide the mariners aright.To bear with this, the seamen stretch their oars;Then round the rock they steer, and seek the former shores.The lots decide their place. Above the rest,Each leader shining in his Tyrian vest;The common crew with wreaths of poplar boughsTheir temples crown, and shade their sweaty brows:Besmear’d with oil, their naked shoulders shine.All take their seats, and wait the sounding sign:They gripe their oars; and ev’ry panting breastIs rais’d by turns with hope, by turns with fear depress’d.The clangour of the trumpet gives the sign;At once they start, advancing in a line:With shouts the sailors rend the starry skies;Lash’d with their oars, the smoky billows rise;Sparkles the briny main, and the vex’d ocean fries.Exact in time, with equal strokes they row:At once the brushing oars and brazen prowDash up the sandy waves, and ope the depths below.Not fiery coursers, in a chariot race,Invade the field with half so swift a pace;Not the fierce driver with more fury lendsThe sounding lash, and, ere the stroke descends,Low to the wheels his pliant body bends.The partial crowd their hopes and fears divide,And aid with eager shouts the favour’d side.Cries, murmurs, clamours, with a mixing sound,From woods to woods, from hills to hills rebound.
Amidst the loud applauses of the shore,Gyas outstripp’d the rest, and sprung before:Cloanthus, better mann’d, pursued him fast,But his o’er-masted galley check’d his haste.The Centaur and the Dolphin brush the brineWith equal oars, advancing in a line;And now the mighty Centaur seems to lead,And now the speedy Dolphin gets ahead;Now board to board the rival vessels row,The billows lave the skies, and ocean groans below.They reach’d the mark; proud Gyas and his trainIn triumph rode, the victors of the main;But, steering round, he charg’d his pilot standMore close to shore, and skim along the sand.“Let others bear to sea!” Menoetes heard;But secret shelves too cautiously he fear’d,And, fearing, sought the deep; and still aloof he steer’d.With louder cries the captain call’d again:“Bear to the rocky shore, and shun the main.”He spoke, and, speaking, at his stern he sawThe bold Cloanthus near the shelvings draw.Betwixt the mark and him the Scylla stood,And in a closer compass plow’d the flood.He pass’d the mark; and, wheeling, got before:Gyas blasphem’d the gods, devoutly swore,Cried out for anger, and his hair he tore.Mindless of others’ lives (so high was grownHis rising rage) and careless of his own,The trembling dotard to the deck he drew;Then hoisted up, and overboard he threw:This done, he seiz’d the helm; his fellows cheer’d,Turn’d short upon the shelfs, and madly steer’d.
Hardly his head the plunging pilot rears,Clogg’d with his clothes, and cumber’d with his years:Now dropping wet, he climbs the cliff with pain.The crowd, that saw him fall and float again,Shout from the distant shore; and loudly laugh’d,To see his heaving breast disgorge the briny draught.The following Centaur, and the Dolphin’s crew,Their vanish’d hopes of victory renew;While Gyas lags, they kindle in the race,To reach the mark. Sergesthus takes the place;Mnestheus pursues; and while around they wind,Comes up, not half his galley’s length behind;Then, on the deck, amidst his mates appear’d,And thus their drooping courages he cheer’d:“My friends, and Hector’s followers heretofore,Exert your vigour; tug the lab’ring oar;Stretch to your strokes, my still unconquer’d crew,Whom from the flaming walls of Troy I drew.In this, our common int’rest, let me findThat strength of hand, that courage of the mind,As when you stemm’d the strong Malean flood,And o’er the Syrtes’ broken billows row’d.I seek not now the foremost palm to gain;Tho’ yet——But, ah! that haughty wish is vain!Let those enjoy it whom the gods ordain.But to be last, the lags of all the race!Redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace.”Now, one and all, they tug amain; they rowAt the full stretch, and shake the brazen prow.The sea beneath ’em sinks; their lab’ring sidesAre swell’d, and sweat runs gutt’ring down in tides.Chance aids their daring with unhop’d success;Sergesthus, eager with his beak to pressBetwixt the rival galley and the rock,Shuts up th’ unwieldly Centaur in the lock.The vessel struck; and, with the dreadful shock,Her oars she shiver’d, and her head she broke.The trembling rowers from their banks arise,And, anxious for themselves, renounce the prize.With iron poles they heave her off the shores,And gather from the sea their floating oars.The crew of Mnestheus, with elated minds,Urge their success, and call the willing winds;Then ply their oars, and cut their liquid wayIn larger compass on the roomy sea.As, when the dove her rocky hold forsakes,Rous’d in a fright, her sounding wings she shakes;The cavern rings with clatt’ring; out she flies,And leaves her callow care, and cleaves the skies:At first she flutters; but at length she springsTo smoother flight, and shoots upon her wings:So Mnestheus in the Dolphin cuts the sea;And, flying with a force, that force assists his way.Sergesthus in the Centaur soon he pass’d,Wedg’d in the rocky shoals, and sticking fast.In vain the victor he with cries implores,And practices to row with shatter’d oars.Then Mnestheus bears with Gyas, and outflies:The ship, without a pilot, yields the prize.Unvanquish’d Scylla now alone remains;Her he pursues, and all his vigour strains.Shouts from the fav’ring multitude arise;Applauding Echo to the shouts replies;Shouts, wishes, and applause run rattling thro’ the skies.These clamours with disdain the Scylla heard,Much grudg’d the praise, but more the robb’d reward:Resolv’d to hold their own, they mend their pace,All obstinate to die, or gain the race.Rais’d with success, the Dolphin swiftly ran;For they can conquer, who believe they can.Both urge their oars, and fortune both supplies,And both perhaps had shar’d an equal prize;When to the seas Cloanthus holds his hands,And succour from the wat’ry pow’rs demands:“Gods of the liquid realms, on which I row!If, giv’n by you, the laurel bind my brow,Assist to make me guilty of my vow!A snow-white bull shall on your shore be slain;His offer’d entrails cast into the main,And ruddy wine, from golden goblets thrown,Your grateful gift and my return shall own.”The choir of nymphs, and Phorcus, from below,With virgin Panopea, heard his vow;And old Portunus, with his breadth of hand,Push’d on, and sped the galley to the land.Swift as a shaft, or winged wind, she flies,And, darting to the port, obtains the prize.
