And so, thought Anna, Things are no worse than when Sychaeus perished. She did not know the death these rites portended, Had no suspicion, and carried out her orders. The pyre is raised in the court; it towers high With pine and holm-oak, it is hung with garlands And funeral wreaths, and on the couch she places Aeneas’ sword, his garments, and his image, Knowing the outcome. Round about are altars, Where, with her hair unbound, the priestess calls On thrice a hundred gods, Erebus, Chaos, Hecate, queen of Hell, triple Diana. Water is sprinkled, from Avernus fountain, Or said to be, and herbs are sought, by moonlight Mown with bronze sickles, and the stem-ends running With a black milk, and the caul of a colt, new-born. Dido, with holy meal and holy hands, Stands at the altar, with one sandal loosened And robes unfastened, calls the gods to witness, Prays to the stars that know her doom, invoking, Beyond them, any powers, if there are any, Who care for lovers in unequal bondage. Night: and tired creatures over all the world Were seeking slumber; the woods and the wild waters Were quiet, and the silent stars were wheeling Their course half over; every field was still; The beasts of the field, the brightly colored birds, Dwellers in lake and pool, in thorn and thicket, Slept through the tranquil night, their sorrows over, Their troubles soothed. But no such blessèd darkness Closes the eyes of Dido; no repose Comes to her anxious heart. Her pangs redouble, Her love swells up, surging, a great tide rising Of wrath and doubt and passion. “What do I do? What now? Go back to my Numidian suitors, Be scorned by those I scorned? Pursue the Trojans? Obey their orders? They were grateful to me, Once, I remember. But who would let them take me? Suppose I went. They hate me now; they were always Deceivers: is Laomedon forgotten, Whose blood runs through their veins? What then? Attend them, Alone, be their companion, the loud-mouthed sailors? Or with my own armada follow after, Wear out my sea-worn Tyrians once more With vengeance and adventure? Better die. Die; you deserve to; end the hurt with the sword. It is your fault, Anna; you were sorry for me, Won over by my tears; you put this load Of evil on me. It was not permitted, It seems, for me to live apart from wedlock, A blameless life. An animal does better. I vowed Sychaeus faith. I have been faithless.” So, through the night, she tossed in restless torment.