In her sleep fierce
Aeneas drives her wildly, and ever she seems being left by herself
alone, ever going uncompanioned on a weary way, and seeking her Tyrians
in a solitary land: even as frantic Pentheus sees the [470-503]arrayed
Furies and a double sun, and Thebes shows herself twofold to his eyes:
or Agamemnonian Orestes, renowned in tragedy, when his mother pursues
him armed with torches and dark serpents, and the Fatal Sisters crouch
avenging in the doorway.
Aeneas drives her wildly, and ever she seems being left by herself
alone, ever going uncompanioned on a weary way, and seeking her Tyrians
in a solitary land: even as frantic Pentheus sees the [470-503]arrayed
Furies and a double sun, and Thebes shows herself twofold to his eyes:
or Agamemnonian Orestes, renowned in tragedy, when his mother pursues
him armed with torches and dark serpents, and the Fatal Sisters crouch
avenging in the doorway.
Virgil - Aeneid
let him
grant this grace--alas, the last! --to his lover, and await fair winds
and an easy passage. No more do I pray for the old delusive marriage,
nor that he give up fair Latium and abandon a kingdom. A breathing-space
I ask, to give my madness rest and room, till my very [434-469]fortune
teach my grief submission. This last favour I implore: sister, be
pitiful; grant this to me, and I will restore it in full measure when I
die. '
So she pleaded, and so her sister carries and recarries the piteous tale
of weeping. But by no weeping is he stirred, inflexible to all the words
he hears. Fate withstands, and lays divine bars on unmoved mortal ears.
Even as when the eddying blasts of northern Alpine winds are emulous to
uproot the secular strength of a mighty oak, it wails on, and the trunk
quivers and the high foliage strews the ground; the tree clings fast on
the rocks, and high as her top soars into heaven, so deep strike her
roots to hell; even thus is the hero buffeted with changeful perpetual
accents, and distress thrills his mighty breast, while his purpose stays
unstirred, and tears fall in vain.
Then indeed, hapless and dismayed by doom, Dido prays for death, and is
weary of gazing on the arch of heaven. The more to make her fulfil her
purpose and quit the light, she saw, when she laid her gifts on the
altars alight with incense, awful to tell, the holy streams blacken, and
the wine turn as it poured into ghastly blood. Of this sight she spoke
to none--no, not to her sister. Likewise there was within the house a
marble temple of her ancient lord, kept of her in marvellous honour, and
fastened with snowy fleeces and festal boughs. Forth of it she seemed to
hear her husband's voice crying and calling when night was dim upon
earth, and alone on the house-tops the screech-owl often made moan with
funeral note and long-drawn sobbing cry. Therewithal many a warning of
wizards of old terrifies her with appalling presage.
In her sleep fierce
Aeneas drives her wildly, and ever she seems being left by herself
alone, ever going uncompanioned on a weary way, and seeking her Tyrians
in a solitary land: even as frantic Pentheus sees the [470-503]arrayed
Furies and a double sun, and Thebes shows herself twofold to his eyes:
or Agamemnonian Orestes, renowned in tragedy, when his mother pursues
him armed with torches and dark serpents, and the Fatal Sisters crouch
avenging in the doorway.
So when, overcome by her pangs, she caught the madness and resolved to
die, she works out secretly the time and fashion, and accosts her
sorrowing sister with mien hiding her design and hope calm on her brow.
'I have found a way, mine own--wish me joy, sisterlike--to restore him
to me or release me of my love for him. Hard by the ocean limit and the
set of sun is the extreme Aethiopian land, where ancient Atlas turns on
his shoulders the starred burning axletree of heaven. Out of it hath
been shown to me a priestess of Massylian race, warder of the temple of
the Hesperides, even she who gave the dragon his food, and kept the holy
boughs on the tree, sprinkling clammy honey and slumberous poppy-seed.
She professes with her spells to relax the purposes of whom she will,
but on others to bring passion and pain; to stay the river-waters and
turn the stars backward: she calls up ghosts by night; thou shalt see
earth moaning under foot and mountain-ashes descending from the hills. I
take heaven, sweet, to witness, and thee, mine own darling sister, I do
not willingly arm myself with the arts of magic. Do thou secretly raise
a pyre in the inner court, and let them lay on it the arms that the
accursed one left hanging in our chamber, and all the dress he wore, and
the bridal bed where I fell. It is good to wipe out all the wretch's
traces, and the priestess orders thus. ' So speaks she, and is silent,
while pallor overruns her face. Yet Anna deems not her sister veils
death behind these strange rites, and grasps not her wild purpose, nor
fears aught deeper than at Sychaeus' death. So she makes ready as
bidden. . . .
[504-538]But the Queen, the pyre being built up of piled faggots and
sawn ilex in the inmost of her dwelling, hangs the room with chaplets
and garlands it with funeral boughs: on the pillow she lays the dress he
wore, the sword he left, and an image of him, knowing what was to come.
grant this grace--alas, the last! --to his lover, and await fair winds
and an easy passage. No more do I pray for the old delusive marriage,
nor that he give up fair Latium and abandon a kingdom. A breathing-space
I ask, to give my madness rest and room, till my very [434-469]fortune
teach my grief submission. This last favour I implore: sister, be
pitiful; grant this to me, and I will restore it in full measure when I
die. '
So she pleaded, and so her sister carries and recarries the piteous tale
of weeping. But by no weeping is he stirred, inflexible to all the words
he hears. Fate withstands, and lays divine bars on unmoved mortal ears.
Even as when the eddying blasts of northern Alpine winds are emulous to
uproot the secular strength of a mighty oak, it wails on, and the trunk
quivers and the high foliage strews the ground; the tree clings fast on
the rocks, and high as her top soars into heaven, so deep strike her
roots to hell; even thus is the hero buffeted with changeful perpetual
accents, and distress thrills his mighty breast, while his purpose stays
unstirred, and tears fall in vain.
Then indeed, hapless and dismayed by doom, Dido prays for death, and is
weary of gazing on the arch of heaven. The more to make her fulfil her
purpose and quit the light, she saw, when she laid her gifts on the
altars alight with incense, awful to tell, the holy streams blacken, and
the wine turn as it poured into ghastly blood. Of this sight she spoke
to none--no, not to her sister. Likewise there was within the house a
marble temple of her ancient lord, kept of her in marvellous honour, and
fastened with snowy fleeces and festal boughs. Forth of it she seemed to
hear her husband's voice crying and calling when night was dim upon
earth, and alone on the house-tops the screech-owl often made moan with
funeral note and long-drawn sobbing cry. Therewithal many a warning of
wizards of old terrifies her with appalling presage.
In her sleep fierce
Aeneas drives her wildly, and ever she seems being left by herself
alone, ever going uncompanioned on a weary way, and seeking her Tyrians
in a solitary land: even as frantic Pentheus sees the [470-503]arrayed
Furies and a double sun, and Thebes shows herself twofold to his eyes:
or Agamemnonian Orestes, renowned in tragedy, when his mother pursues
him armed with torches and dark serpents, and the Fatal Sisters crouch
avenging in the doorway.
So when, overcome by her pangs, she caught the madness and resolved to
die, she works out secretly the time and fashion, and accosts her
sorrowing sister with mien hiding her design and hope calm on her brow.
'I have found a way, mine own--wish me joy, sisterlike--to restore him
to me or release me of my love for him. Hard by the ocean limit and the
set of sun is the extreme Aethiopian land, where ancient Atlas turns on
his shoulders the starred burning axletree of heaven. Out of it hath
been shown to me a priestess of Massylian race, warder of the temple of
the Hesperides, even she who gave the dragon his food, and kept the holy
boughs on the tree, sprinkling clammy honey and slumberous poppy-seed.
She professes with her spells to relax the purposes of whom she will,
but on others to bring passion and pain; to stay the river-waters and
turn the stars backward: she calls up ghosts by night; thou shalt see
earth moaning under foot and mountain-ashes descending from the hills. I
take heaven, sweet, to witness, and thee, mine own darling sister, I do
not willingly arm myself with the arts of magic. Do thou secretly raise
a pyre in the inner court, and let them lay on it the arms that the
accursed one left hanging in our chamber, and all the dress he wore, and
the bridal bed where I fell. It is good to wipe out all the wretch's
traces, and the priestess orders thus. ' So speaks she, and is silent,
while pallor overruns her face. Yet Anna deems not her sister veils
death behind these strange rites, and grasps not her wild purpose, nor
fears aught deeper than at Sychaeus' death. So she makes ready as
bidden. . . .
[504-538]But the Queen, the pyre being built up of piled faggots and
sawn ilex in the inmost of her dwelling, hangs the room with chaplets
and garlands it with funeral boughs: on the pillow she lays the dress he
wore, the sword he left, and an image of him, knowing what was to come.
