She ceased, and with her heart debates How best to leave the life she hates. Then to Sichæus’ nurse she cried (For hers erewhile at Tyre had died):— ‘Good nurse, my sister Anna bring: O’er face and body bid her fling Pure drops from lustral bough: So sprinkled come, and at her side The victims lead: you too provide A fillet for your brow. A sacrifice to Stygian Jove I here perform, to ease my love, And give to flame the fatal bed Which pillowed once the Trojan’s head.’ Thus she: the aged dame gives heed, And, feebly hurrying, mends her speed. Then, maddening over crime, the queen, With bloodshot eyes, and sanguine streaks Fresh painted on her quivering cheeks, And wanning o’er with death foreseen, Through inner portals wildly fares, Scales the high pile with swift ascent, Takes up the Dardan sword and bares, Sad gift, for different uses meant. She eyed the robes with wistful look, And, pausing, thought awhile and wept; Then pressed her to the couch, and spoke Her last good-night or ere she slept. ‘Sweet relics of a time of love, When fate and heaven were kind, Receive my life-blood and remove These torments of the mind. My life is lived, and I have played The part that Fortune gave, And now I pass, a queenly shade, Majestic to the grave. A glorious city I have built, Have seen my walls ascend, Chastised for blood of husband spilt A brother, yet no friend. Blest lot! yet lacked one blessing more, That Troy had never touched my shore.’ Then as she kissed the darling bed, ‘To die! and unrevenged!’ she said, ‘Yet let me die: thus, thus I go Exulting to the shades below. Let the false Dardan feel the blaze That burns me pouring on his gaze, And bear along, to cheer his way, The funeral presage of to-day.’ Thus as she speaks, the attendant train Behold her writhing as in pain, Her hands with slaughter sprinkled o’er, And the fell weapon spouting gore. Loud clamors thrill the lofty halls: Fame shakes the town, confounds, appalls: Each house resounds with women’s cries. And funeral wails assault the skies: E’en as one day should war o’erthrow Proud Carthage or her parent Tyre, And fire-flood stream with furious glow O’er roof, and battlement, and spire.” CONINGTON.