A fourth Circle holds within confines wide “I Campi Dolorosi”; therein hide In secluded alleys, and myrtle grove, Those eaten through with leprosy of love. Death kills it not; for a multitude haunt The bowers, melancholy music chant. With Procris, Laodamia, the rest, The wound, unhealed, still bleeding in her breast, Tyrian Dido roamed in a great wood. Æneas in the leafy twilight stood, Uncertain; as, at the month’s dawn, we doubt If it be moon, or cloud flitting about. Soon recognition, love; and, with them both, Tears, shame, remembrance of his plighted troth: “Then, ’twas truth,” he cried, “floated o’er the sea— Dead—and by thy own hand—and, Queen, for Me! But by the Stars, by all the Gods I know, By what Pow’rs punish perjuries below— Against, I swear, my heart’s will, by commands Divine, I left thy shore for other lands. To please, not myself, but because I must, I pace Shadow-land, mouldy with the rust, Miseries, aches of folly and of crime,— Accumulated hoardings of old Time. An instrument I of the Gods’ fixed plan; Yet even thus would have rebelled as man, Faced the penalties, had I been so vain As to imagine the excess of pain My parting would cause thee! In pity, stay! Whom flyest thou? I have so much to say! And only one poor moment Fate allows! Rob not of this, the last it grants our vows!” As fruitless task to seek by words to slake Fury of a furnace, as to re-make A broken heart, or back to life surprise Killed fondness.—On earth she fixed sullen eyes; Moved by his prayers no more than by a smile Of Venus would be cliff on Paros’ isle. At last, though long his sad remorse pursued, Gathering her strength, she regained the wood.