I grant, that, while your sorrows yet were green, It well became a woman, and a queen, The vows of Tyrian princes to neglect, To scorn Iarbas, and his love reject, With all the Libyan lords of mighty name; But will you fight against a pleasing flame? This little spot of land, which heaven bestows, On every side is hemmed with warlike foes; Gætulian cities here are spread around, And fierce Numidians there your frontiers bound; Here lies a barren waste of thirsty land, And there the Syrtes raise the moving sand; Barcæan troops besiege the narrow shore, And from the sea Pygmalion threatens more. Propitious heaven, and gracious Juno, lead This wandering navy to your needful aid: How will your empire spread, your city rise, From such a union, and with such allies! Implore the favour of the powers above, And leave the conduct of the rest to love. Continue still your hospitable way, And still invent occasions of their stay, Till storms and winter winds shall cease to threat, And planks and oars repair their shattered fleet." These words, which from a friend and sister came, } With ease resolved the scruples of her fame, } And added fury to the kindled flame. } Inspired with hope, the project they pursue; On every altar sacrifice renew; A chosen ewe of two years old they pay To Ceres, Bacchus, and the god of day. Preferring Juno's power, (for Juno ties The nuptial knot, and makes the marriage-joys,) The beauteous queen before her altar stands, And holds the golden goblet in her hands. A milk-white heifer she with flowers adorns, And pours the ruddy wine betwixt her horns; And, while the priests with prayer the gods invoke, She feeds their altars with Sabæan smoke, With hourly care the sacrifice renews, And anxiously the panting entrails views. What priestly rites, alas! what pious art, What vows, avail to cure a bleeding heart? A gentle fire she feeds within her veins, Where the soft god secure in silence reigns. Sick with desire, and seeking him she loves, From street to street the raving Dido roves. So, when the watchful shepherd, from the blind, Wounds with a random shaft the careless hind, Distracted with her pain she flies the woods, Bounds o'er the lawn, and seeks the silent floods-- With fruitless care; for still the fatal dart Sticks in her side, and rankles in her heart. And now she leads the Trojan chief along The lofty walls, amidst the busy throng; Displays her Tyrian wealth, and rising town, Which love, without his labour, makes his own. This pomp she shows, to tempt her wandering guest; Her faultering tongue forbids to speak the rest. When day declines, and feasts renew the night, Still on his face she feeds her famished sight; She longs again to hear the prince relate His own adventures, and the Trojan fate. He tells it o'er and o'er; but still in vain,