The queen receives the wanderers with open-handed generosity, disclaims
all intentional harshness, bids the Trojans freely share her city and
her realm, and expresses the wish that their king himself, Æneas, were
before her. These, we may be sure, were glad words to Æneas and his
companions. They at once stand forth before the eyes of the astonished
throng, joyfully greet their comrades, and Æneas salutes the queen with
grateful and courtly speech:
Lo, him you ask for! I am he,
Æneas, saved from Libya's sea.
O, only heart that deigns to mourn
For Ilium's cruel care!
That bids e'en us, poor relics, torn
From Danaan fury, all outworn
By earth and ocean, all forlorn,
Its home, it's city share!
We cannot thank you; no, nor they,
Our brethren of the Dardan race,
Who, driven from their ancestral place,
Throughout the wide world stray.
May heaven, if virtue claim its thought,
If justice yet avail for aught,
Heaven, and the sense of conscious right,
With worthier meed your acts requite!
What happy ages gave you birth?
What glorious sires begat such worth?
While rivers run into the deep,
While shadows o'er the hillside sweep,
While stars in heaven's fair pasture graze,
Shall live your honor, name, and praise,
Whate'er my destined home.
Conington.
The astonished Dido finds fitting words of welcome for her royal guest,
again assures the Trojans that her city is their own, and proclaims a
great feast on the ensuing night in honor of the distinguished
strangers.
This feast is a scene of royal and barbaric splendor. The Tyrian lords
and Trojan princes throng the banquet-hall with its rich tapestries and
flashing lights, vessels of massive silver and of gold, while the
bright-hued robes of Dido and her train add gladness and color to the
scene. Amidst the feasting there was a song by an old minstrel, which he
accompanied by the strains of his lyre. The song was upon the ever
fascinating theme of natural phenomena, the powers of the air, the
earth, the sea--all the dim mysteries of being. We are told that he sang
about these things. Let us phrase them for his lyric measures.
Of the orb of the wandering moon I sing,
As she wheels through the darkening skies;
Where the storm-brooding band of the Hyades swing,
And the circling Triones arise;
Of the sun's struggling ball
Which the shadows appall
Till the menacing darkness flies;
Of the all-potent forces that dwell in the air,
With its measureless reaches of blue;
The soft, floating clouds of gossamer there,
And the loud-wailing storm-rack too;
Of the rain and the winds
And the lightning that blinds
When its swift-darting bolt flashes through;