And all the speed her aged limbs can bear. But furious Dido, with dark thoughts involved, Shook at the mighty mischief she resolved. With livid spots distinguished was her face; Red were her rolling eyes, and discomposed her pace; Ghastly she gazed, with pain she drew her breath, And nature shivered at approaching death. Then swiftly to the fatal place she passed, And mounts the funeral pile with furious haste; Unsheaths the sword the Trojan left behind, (Not for so dire an enterprize designed.) But when she viewed the garments loosely spread, Which once he wore, and saw the conscious bed, She paused, and, with a sigh, the robes embraced, } Then on the couch her trembling body cast, } Repressed the ready tears, and spoke her last:-- } "Dear pledges of my love, while heaven so pleased, Receive a soul, of mortal anguish eased. My fatal course is finished; and I go, A glorious name, among the ghosts below. A lofty city by my hands is raised; Pygmalion punished, and my lord appeased. What could my fortune have afforded more, Had the false Trojan never touched my shore?" Then kissed the couch; and "Must I die," she said, "And unrevenged? 'tis doubly to be dead! Yet even this death with pleasure I receive: On any terms, 'tis better than to live. These flames, from far, may the false Trojan view; These boding omens his base flight pursue!" She said, and struck; deep entered in her side The piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed: Clogged in the wound the cruel weapon stands; The spouting blood came streaming on her hands. Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke, And with loud cries the sounding palace shook. Distracted, from the fatal sight they fled, And through the town the dismal rumour spread. First, from the frighted court the yell began; Redoubled, thence from house to house it ran: The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies. Not less the clamour, than if--ancient Tyre, Or the new Carthage, set by foes on fire-- The rolling ruin, with their loved abodes, Involved the blazing temples of their gods. Her sister hears; and, furious with despair, She beats her breast, and rends her yellow hair, And, calling on Eliza's name aloud, Runs breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd. "Was all that pomp of woe for this prepared, These fires, this funeral pile, these altars reared? Was all this train of plots contrived, (said she,) All only to deceive unhappy me? Which is the worst? Didst thou in death pretend To scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend? Thy summoned sister, and thy friend, had come; One sword had served us both, one common tomb: Was I to raise the pile, the powers invoke, Not to be present at the fatal stroke? At once thou hast destroyed thyself and me, Thy town, thy senate, and thy colony!