Sweep over Alpine mountains, in their fury Fighting each other to uproot an oak-tree Whose ancient strength endures against their roaring And the trunk shudders and the leaves come down Strewing the ground, but the old tree clings to the mountain, Its roots as deep toward hell as its crest toward heaven, And still holds on--even so, Aeneas, shaken By storm-blasts of appeal, by voices calling From every side, is tossed and torn, and steady. His will stays motionless, and tears are vain. Then Dido prays for death at last; the fates Are terrible, her luck is out, she is tired Of gazing at the everlasting heaven. The more to goad her will to die, she sees-- Oh terrible!--the holy water blacken, Libations turn to blood, on ground and altar, When she makes offerings. But she tells no one, Not even her sister. From the marble shrine, Memorial to her former lord, attended, Always, by her, with honor, fleece and garland, She hears his voice, his words, her husband calling When darkness holds the world, and from the house-top An owl sends out a long funereal wailing, And she remembers warnings of old seers, Fearful, foreboding. In her dreams Aeneas Appears to hunt her down; or she is going Alone in a lost country, wandering Trying to find her Tyrians, mad as Pentheus, Or frenzied as Orestes, when his mother Is after him with whips of snakes, or firebrands, While the Avengers menace at the threshold. She was beaten, harboring madness, and resolved On dying; alone, she plotted time and method; Keeping the knowledge from her sorrowing sister, She spoke with calm composure:--“I have found A way (wish me good luck) to bring him to me Or set me free from loving him forever. Near Ocean and the west there is a country, The Ethiopian land, far-off, where Atlas Turns on his shoulders the star-studded world; I know a priestess there; she guards the temple Of the daughters of the Evening Star; she feeds The dragon there, and guards the sacred branches, She sprinkles honey-dew, strews drowsy poppies, And she knows charms to free the hearts of lovers When she so wills it, or to trouble others; She can reverse the wheeling of the planets, Halt rivers in their flowing; she can summon The ghosts of night-time; you will see earth shaking Under her tread, and trees come down from mountains. Dear sister mine, as heaven is my witness, I hate to take these arts of magic on me! Be secret, then; but in the inner courtyard, Raise up a funeral-pyre, to hold the armor Left hanging in the bower, by that hero, That good devoted man, and all his raiment, And add the bridal bed, my doom: the priestess Said to do this, and it will be a pleasure To see the end of all of it, every token Of that unspeakable knave.”