LVII. E'en as when Northern Alpine blasts contend This side and that to lay an oak-tree low, Aged but strong: the branches creak and bend, And leaves thick-falling all the ground bestrow: The trunk clings firmly to the rock below: High as it rears its weather-beaten crest, So dive its roots to Tartarus. Even so Beset with prayers, the hero stands distrest; So vain are Anna's tears, so moveless is his breast. LVIII. Then--then unhappy Dido prays to die, Maddened by Fate, aweary of the day, Aweary of the over-arching sky. And lo! an omen seems to chide delay, And steel her purpose. As, in act to pay Her gifts, with incense at the shrine she kneels, Black turns the water, horrible to say; To loathsome gore the sacred wine congeals. Not e'en to Anna's self this vision she reveals. LIX. Nay more; within the precincts of her house There stood a marble shrine, with garlands bright And snow-white fleeces, sacred to her spouse. Hence, oft as darkness shrouds the world from sight, Voices she hears, and accents of affright, As though Sychaeus told aloud his wrong, Hears from the roof-top, through the livelong night, The solitary screech-owl's funeral song, Wailing an endless dirge, the dismal notes prolong. LX. Dim warnings, given by many an ancient seer, Affright her. Ever wandering, ever lost, In dreams she sees the fierce AEneas near, And seeks her Tyrians on a lonely coast. So raving Pentheus sees the Furies' host, Twin suns and double Thebes. So, mad with Fate, Blood-stained Orestes flees his mother's ghost, Armed with black snakes and firebrands; at the gate The avenging Fiends, close-crouched, the murderer await. LXI. So now, possessed with Furies, the poor queen, O'ercome with grief and resolute to die, Settles the time and manner. Joy serene Smiles on her brow, her purpose to belie, And hope dissembled sparkles in her eye. "Dear Anna," thus she hails with cheerful tone Her weeping sister, "put thy sorrow by, And joy with me. Indulgent Heaven hath shown A way to gain his love, or rid me of my own. LXII. "Near Ocean's limits and the sunset, lies A far-off land, by AEthiopians owned, Where mighty Atlas turns the spangled skies. There a Massylian priestess I have found, The warder of the Hesperian fane renowned. 'Twas hers to feed the dragon, hers to keep The golden fruit, and guard the sacred ground, The dragon's food in honied drugs to steep, And mix the poppy drowse, that soothes the soul to sleep.