Ye gods! and shall he go and mock our royal power?
Why not to arms, and send our forces in pursuit,
And bid them hurry down the vessels from the shore?
Ho there, my men, quick, fetch the torches, seize your arms,
And man the oars!--What am I saying? where am I?
What madness turns my brain? O most unhappy queen,
Is it thus thy evil deeds are coming back to thee?
Such fate was just when thou didst yield thy scepter up.--
Lo, _there's_ the fealty of him who, rumor says,
His country's gods with him in all his wandering bears,
And on his shoulders bore his sire from burning Troy!
Why could I not have torn his body limb from limb,
And strewed his members on the deep? and slain his friends,
His son Aschanius, and served his mangled limbs
To grace his father's feast?--Such conflict might have had
A doubtful issue.--Grant it might, but whom had I,
Foredoomed to death, to fear? I might have fired his camp,
His ships, and wrapped in common ruin father, son,
And all the race, and given myself to crown the doom
Of all.--O Sun, who with thy shining rays dost see
All mortal deeds; O Juno, who dost know and thus
Canst judge the grievous cares of wedlock; thou whom wild
And shrieking women worship through the dusky streets,
O Hecate; and ye avenging Furies--ye,
The gods of failing Dido, come and bend your power
To these my woes and hear my prayer. If yonder wretch
Must enter port and reach his land decreed by fate,
If thus the laws of Jove ordain, this order holds;
But, torn in war, a hardy people's foeman, far
From friends and young Iulus' arms, may he be forced
To seek a Grecian stranger's aid, and may he see
The death of many whom he loves. And when at last
A meager peace on doubtful terms he has secured,
May he no pleasure find in kingdom or in life;
But may he fall untimely, and unburied lie
Upon some solitary strand. This, this I pray,
And with my latest breath this final wish proclaim.
Then, O my Tyrians, with a bitter hate pursue
The whole accurséd race, and send this to my shade
As welcome tribute. Let there be no amity
Between our peoples. Rise thou from my bones,
O some avenger, who with deadly sword and brand
Shall scathe the Trojan exiles, now, in time to come,
Whenever chance and strength shall favor. Be our shores
To shores opposed, our waves to waves, and arms to arms,
Eternal, deadly foes through all posterity.
Miller.
With this prophetic curse, to be fulfilled centuries hence, on the
bloody fields of the Trebia, Trasumenus, and of Cannæ, she snatches up
Æneas' sword, rushes out of the room, and mounts the pyre which she has
prepared. Here have been placed all the objects which her Trojan lover
has left behind. Passionately kissing these and pressing them to her
breast, she utters her last words.