She for a long time, averted, has watched him speaking,
turning her eyes from here and from there; she surveys all
with silent gaze, and speaks, thusly incensed:
“Neither the divine parent of your kind, nor the Dardanian founder,
O faithless one, begot you, but the Caucasus mount, bristling
with hard crags, and Hyrcanean tigresses brought their breasts to you.
For what do I conceal, or for what greater things do I reserve myself?
Has he lamented from out grief? Has he turned his gaze?
Has he, victorious, given tears or pitied me, loving?
What might I prefer to what? Now not greatest Juno
nor the Saturnian father looks at these things with equal eyes.
Nowhere is honour safe! I took you, destitute, thrown upon the shore,
and I, raving, found you in part of my kingdom.
I restored your lost fleet, I restored your men from death
(alas, I, incensed, am carried to madnesses!): now the augur Apollo,
now the Lycian lots, and now the messenger of the gods, sent
by Jove himself carries horrid decrees through the winds!
Doubtless, this hardship is from the gods; this command disturbs
order. Neither do I hold you, nor do I refute your words:
go, find Italy on the winds, seek kingdoms across the seas!
I hope, truly, if the pious gods are able to do such,
that you will drink in punishments in the midst of rocks
and often will call Dido by name. I, absent, will follow you with black fires
and, when frigid death separates your soul and limbs,
I will be a shade in all palces. You will give, wicked one, retributions.
I will hear, and this shade shall come to me, most deep below, with the news.”
She breaks off her address in the middle of these words, and, wretched,
flees the breezes, and bore herself away, and hid herself from sight,
leaving her husband with much sadness and preparing to say
many things. Female slaves catch her, and bear her collapsed limbs
to her marbled bedroom, and place her in bed.
But pious Aeneas, though he wishes to soothe her grieving
by comforting and to avert her worries with words,
lamenting many things and his heart shaken by love,
he nevertheless carries out the orders of the gods and returns to his fleet.
Then, truly, the Teucers exhort and lead the lofty ships
to the entire beachhead. The annointed prow sails,
and fronded bear the oaken oars, unhewn
of trees in eagerness of flight.
You might discern them moving and rushing from the entire city:
just as ants plunder great piles of spelt grain
when they are mindful of winter and pile it in a house;
a black battle line goes in the fields and they carry the spoil
through grasses along a narrow path: some push the heaped grains
with striving shoulders, some muster the battle line
and reprove delays; the path boils with the work of all.
Whom, then, has been sensed by you, Dido, discerning such things,
or what grief do you give, when you were seeing from your high citadel
that the wide shores were busy, and when you were seeing all the sea
be mixed with such clamour before your eyes!
Wicked Love, what mortal hearts do you not compel!
Again, she is compelled to go to tears, again to attempt by entreating
and, as a suppliant, to submit her feelings to love,
lest any untried thing leave her to die in vain.
“Anna, you see that there is hastening about the entire shore:
from all places they convene; not a sail calls the winds,
and the joyous sailors place garlands around their ships.
If I were able to expect such sorrow, and, sister,
to endure, I would go hence. But, Anna, carry out
this one work for me, for he, wicked, honours
you alone, and truly, he trusts in you his secret feelings;
you alone have known the suitable times of approach of the man.
Go, sister, and speak as a suppliant to the haughty foreigner.
When I have not sent the Danaans to kill the Trojan kind,
or ordered the fleet from Aulis to Pergamum,
nor have I violated the ashes or the spirit of the father Anchises,
why does he deny to accept my words in his stony ears?
For what does he ruin me? Let him give me, miserable, loving, this last gift:
let him expect easy flight and bearing winds.
No longer do I entreat ancient marriage rites, which he has broken,
nor let hem be without beautiful Latium or relinquish his kingdom.
I seek empty time, for rest and space from my furor,
as long as my fortune might teach me, conquered, to grieve.
I entreat this last favor (pity the sister),
which, when he has granted it to me, I will repay, heaped up, with my death.”
Her sister entreated such things, and, miserable, bears and
repeats such griefs. But he is moved by no
lamentations, nor does he, pliable, hear any words;
the fates obstruct and the god has buried his calm ears.
But just as when Alpine Boreads overturn a strong oak
with aged wood, now hence, now thence with gusts,
they compete among themselves; a roar comes forth and
tall fronds are laid low to the earth from the shaken trunk;
it itself clings to crags and as it holds towards the lofty skies
with its head, with its roots it holds so far towards Tartarus:
by no means otherwise is the hero assailed here and here
with unceasing words, and he feels grief in his great heart;
his mind unmoved remains, empty tears are turned.