40 She ceas'd--but down her bosom gush'd her tears. "O dearer than the genial ray that cheers", Her sister cry'd, shall lonely grief consume, Lost to the joys of love your beauties bloom, Lost to the joys, maternal feelings share? 45 Do shades for this, do buried ashes care? That new in grief no lover should succeed, Tyrians in vain, in vain Iarba plead; That every chief of Afric's wide domain, In triumphs proud, should learn to sue in vain; 50 'Twas well; but why a mutual flame withstand? Can you forget who owns this hostile land? Unconquer'd Getulans your walls surround, The Syri untam'd, the wild Numidian bound. Thro' the wide desert fierce Barceans roam: 55 Why need I mention from our former home, The deadly war, a brother's threats prepare? For me, I think, that Juno's fost'ring care, Some god auspicious, rais'd the winds that bore Those Phrygian vessels to our Lybian shore. 60 Their godlike chief should happy Dido wed, How would her walls ascend, her empire spread? Join'd by the arms of Troy, with such allies, Think to what height will Punic glory rise. Win but the gods, their sacred off'rings pay; 65 Detain your guest; invent some fond delay. See low'ring tempests o'er the ocean ply, The shatter'd vessels, the inclement sky". Each word that dropt inflam'd her burning mind, And all her wav'ring soul to love inclin'd; 70 New gleams of hope in Dido's bosom play, And Honor's bright idea fades away. Fain would the sisters now, by gift and pray'r, With heav'n seduc'd, the conscious error share. At ev'ry shrine, the fav'ring gods to gain, 75 In order due are proper victims slain; To Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Light, And Juno most, who tends the nuptial rite. Herself the goblet lovely Dido bears, Her graceful arm the sacred vessel rears; 80 And where the horns above the forehead join, Upon the snow-white heifer pours the wine: Before the god with awful grace she bows, Moves round the altar rich with daily vows, Hangs o'er the victim, in its bosom pries, 85 And through the breathing entrail darts her eyes. Vain cares, alas! and rites too fondly paid! The tortur'd soul, can vows, can altars aid? Weak boast of priests, and ineffectual pray'rs! In her own heart, unknown, her fate she bears. 90 The pleasing flame upon her vitals feeds, The silent wound within her bosom bleeds.