The Fourth Book of Virgil's Aeneid and the Ninth Book of Voltaire's Henriad

 
      Now grant me, Anna, grant this one request!
      False man! his friendship you alone possest;
      To you his heart was open, none but you,
      The soft access, the pliant moment knew.
      Go sister then, my haughty foe intreat,
      Tell him to Troy I sent no hostile fleet;
      Nor yet, at Aulis, was I one that swore,
      United vengeance to the Dardan shore.
      Have I disturb'd his father's sacred shade,
      That to be heard—not mere—in vain I've pray'd?
      Tho' clos'd his ears to me, can be deny
      This last, this least request! where would he fly?
      Bid him remain till wintry storms subside,
      Till kinder breezes, smooth the ruffled tide.
      The nuptial vow, which he so vainly swore,
      His plighted faith no longer I implore,
      Nor yet his Latian kingdom to forego:
      Some fruitless space, some breathing time for woe,
      'Till fate have thought the wretch subdu'd to grieve,
      Is all I beg—Obtain this last reprieve—
      For pity gain it,—and the short delay
      With all her parting soul, will Dido pay».
      So pray'd the Queen, and o'er and o'er again,
      Pray'rs, sighs, and tears her sister urg'd in vain;
      Unmov'd he stands by tears, by pray'rs by sighs,
      The fates oppose, the God his ear denies.
      Thus from the rock, the patient work of years,
      His knotted strength an oak majestic rears,
      When Alpine storms on ev'ry side contend,
      Now here, now there his rooted mass to bend,
      Each labour'd limb resounds, and from his head
      The rustling spoils in heaps the ground o'erspread.
      He grasps the rock unmov'd, and proudly shoots
      As high to heav'n his head, as down to hell his roots.
      With storms as fierce the lab'ring Hero torn,
      Now here now there by swelling passion borne
      Sunk in his soul a mighty load of woe,
      His mind unshook—tears unavailing flow.
 
 
      'Twas then that Dido, sinking with her fate,
      In all its horror view'd her wretched state.
      The light of heav'n grew odious to her sight,
      She call'd on Death, and each religions rite
      With horrid omens urg'd the dark design:
      The milky juice flowed black upon the shrine;
      And dire to tell, the sacred wine she bore
      Fell from the cup in fleaks of clotted gore.
      These horrid sighs, to her alone reveal'd,
      Ev'n from her sister's friendship she conceal'd.
      But more—a temple in the palace stood
      With snow-white fleeces hang, with garlands strew'd,
      Where to her former husband's honor'd shade
      Assiduous worship, daily vows she paid:
      There, when the night, unroll'd her sable pall
      She hears his voice in doleful murmurs call,
      While from the roof the fated owl alone
      In deep complaint prolongs the funeral tone.
      Beside, what ills had been foretold before,
      Now on her mind, a dread impression bore.
      Her aching eyes did broken slumbers close,
      Æneas like a vengeful fury rose:
      Alone—forsaken—distant from her home,
      Driv'n o'er the desert—she appears to roam
      With sinking steps,—abandoned—left behind,
      Thro' burning sands her native Tyre to find.
      So mad Pentheus saw two suns arise,
      Two Thebes appear before his haggard eyes.
      So wild Orestes flies his mother's rage,
      With snakes, with torches arm'd across the stage,
      To 'scape her vengeance whereso'er he goes,
      Pale furies meet him and his flight oppose.
 
 
      Now when despair had settled on her mind,
      What way to meet the death that she design'd
      Fill'd all her thoughts. Her sister she addrest
      While treach'rous smiles beguil'd her soul distrest.
      «Rejoice, my friend, while I the means impart,
      To gain his love or drive him from my heart:
      A place there is where Æthiopia ends,
      And into ocean's lap the sun descends;
      Where Atlas on his spreading shoulders bears,
      And turns the shining glory of the spheres.
      Thence comes a priestess, in Massyla rear'd,
      Who for the watchful Dragon food prepar'd;
      Th' Hesperian temple 'twas her charge to keep,
      The drowsy flow'rs in liquid honey steep,
      And watch the golden branches on the tree.
      She, at her will, the lab'ring mind can free,
      With mystic verse,—or deadly cares enforce,
      Repell the stars—arrest the rivers course;
      Raise the dead shade, the trembling mountain rend,
      And make the wood with horrid sound descend.
      By heav'n and thee, thou nearest to my heart,
      Against my will I fly to magic art.
      But in the inmost court, in open air,
      A lofty pile thou, dearest friend, prepare,
      There let his arms, my nuptial couch that grac'd,
      There ev'ry thing he faithless left be plac'd;
      And fast that bed—sad witness of my fall;
      The priestess orders to destroy them all.
      Of the sad deed be left no conscious trace—»
      She ceas'd and smil'd,—but death was in her face.
      Anna obey'd; prepar'd the pyre; her mind
      Conceiv'd no fear of all the Queen design'd,
      Nor with such deep despair, her spirit fraught,
      Nor worse than when Sicheus fell she thought.
      In open air, but in a court inclos'd,
      Rich pine and cloven oak the pyre compos'd;
      The Queen herself the lofty sides around,
      With flow'rs of death, funereal fillets bound;
      Then o'er the pyre, upon the nuptial bed,
      His sword, his portrait, all he left, she spread;
      Her spirit labour'd with the dread design;
      All round were altars rais'd for rites divine.
      There stands the priestess with dishevell'd hair;
      (Her voice like thunder shakes the trembling air)
      Thrice on the hundred gods aloud she calls,
      Deep night and chaos, thrice her Voice appalls;
      The triple form that Virgin Dian wears,
      Infernal Hecate's threefold nature hears.
      For stygian waters that surround the dead,
      Enchanted juice, a baleful vapour shed.
      Black drops of venom—potent herbs she steep'd,
      With brazen scythes, by trembling Moonlight reap'd.
      And from the filly's infant forehead shorn
      A powerful philter from the mother torn.
      The Queen her sacred off'ring in her hands,
      With one foot bar'd, before the altar stands;
      Her zone unbound releas'd her flowing vest;
      The conscious gods her dying words attest,
      The start that bear our fate, and if above
      A pow'r remains, that pities injur'd love.
 
 
      'Twas night when o'er the earth in soft repose,
      All that exist, the load of life depose;
      When woods are hush'd, and murmuring billows done,
      When stars descending half their course have run;
      In silence all—The beasts, the feather'd brood,
      That swim the lake, or haunt the thicket wood,
      All thro' the silent night, in balmy sleep
      Their hearts reliev'd in sweet oblivion steep.
      Not wretched Dido—night descends in vain
      Her eyes unclos'd, and unrepriev'd her pain;
      Rest flies her soul, and sleep her couch forsakes;
      Care through the livelong night incessant wakes;
      Now love, now rage, in midnight silence nurst,
      Back on her soal with doubted fury burst.
      From wave to wave of boiling passion borne,
      «What now remains, she cries—despis'd, forlorn,
      Must Dido now, poor suppliant wretch, implore,
      And court the husband she disdain'd before;
      Or must I on their fleet submissive wait;
      And from those Dardan lords expect my fate?
      Oh! yes!—by former favours I may guess
      What gratitude they'll feel in my distress.
      But if—which way! what means?—What pow'r have I?
      How will their pride my humble suit deny?
      Oh senseless being! have I yet to know,
      How far, that perjur'd, Trojan race can go?
      And then—alone attend their joyful crew,
      Or with my Tyrian force their fleet pursue?
      Yes,—and the men I scarce from home could tear,
      Will they for me again the ocean dare.
      No—meet the death you merit.—Let the sword—
      'Tis all that's left, this sad relief afford.
      Oh, sister, to my tears so weakly kind,
      You nurst this fatal error in my mind,
    } You wrought my fate, you gave me to my foe;
    } As Nature free, unshar'd my days might flow,
    } No guilty joy, no faithless partner know,
      No pangs like these I bear,—and not to you,
      Dear injur'd shade, Sicheus not untrue».
      Long as the gloomy shades o'erhung the pole,
      Such cares revolving prey'd upon her soul.
 
 
      Meanwhile Æneas in his fleet repos'd,
      His doubts remov'd, and all for flight dispos'd.
      To him the form divine he'd seen before,
      Appear'd in sleep—again his mandate bore;
      The graceful limbs of youth, the flaxen hair,
      The voice, the rosy hue, Jove's son declare.
      «O goddess born! can sleep weigh down your eyes,
      Clos'd to the dangers which around you vise?
      Senseless!—the zephyrs waste their fav'ring breath,
      While brooding in a soul resolv'd on death
      Some black design, matures, some treach'rous blow,
      Haste then and fly, while yet you've pow'r to go.
      You'll see, if here you wait the morning ray,
      The port block'd up, the shore to flames a prey.
      Woman's a thing so variable and light!
      Haste then away. He spoke and mix'd with night.
 
 
      Æneas trembling as the phantom flew,
      Started from sleep, and rous'd the slumb'ring crew.
      «Rise, rise, companions, each one to his oar;
      Hoist ev'ry sail—a god sent down once more,
      Impels our flight—Be quick—stand out to sea,
      The cables cut. Great God, whoe'er you be
      Thy words again exulting we obey.
      Be present, rule our stars—direct our way
      Propitious». He spoke, his whirling falchion drew,
      The halser cut, the bark impatient flew,
      All felt the impulse—dashing thro' the tide
      They quit the shore, their barks the ocean hide;
      The boiling wave their oars alternate sweep,
      They bend, they pull, they cut the sounding deep.
 
 
      Now rising from Tithonius golden bed
      Fresh beams of rosy light Aurora shed;
      And as the scatter'd shades were pierc'd with grey,
      The Queen from high beheld them under way,
      Their swelling sail the fav'ring breezes bent,
      The shore, the port, a lonely space present.
      Oh then her lovely bosom in despair
      She beat. Oh then she tore her flaxen hair.
      «He's gone—Almighty heav'n, he's gone! she cries,
      That wand'ring exile all my pow'r defies.
      Arm, arm, my warriors—sally from the town;
      Pursue the wretches—haul my gallies down;
      Bring flaming brands, with sails with oars pursue.
      —What have I said, alas! what would I do?
      Where am I—and my mind what phrenzy leads!
      Now Dido, now, you feel your impious deeds.
      Then was the time, your sceptre when you shar'd.
      O thou for faith, for piety rever'd!
      This, this is he whose pious shoulders bore
      His gods, his father, from the Trojan shore!
      Why did I not those limbs to pieces tear,
      Behold the waves, the bloody fragments bear,
      Cut off his friends and sever'd with the sword,
      Serve up Ascanius at his father's board!
      His fortune might prevail—and so it might!
      What has despair to fear—in Fortune's spite
      I'd fire the fleet, the town, the son, the sire,
      The race extinguish, and with joy expire.
      «O Sun, whose beams all earthy deeds reveal,
      Juno who know and witness what I feel,
      Hecate whose howl the midnight hour affrights,
      Gods of my parting soul—avenging sprites,
      Accept my vow, my pray'r expiring hear;
      The ills I bear are worthy of your ear».
      «If so the fates decree, if Jove command,
      That, he accurst, shall reach th' Italian land,
      There may he meet in arms, a warlike race,
      There helpless rove, torn from his son's embrace,
      His friends untimely end there let him feel;
      For succour there to strangers meanly kneel;
      And when for peace, ingloriously he sues,
      His crown, his life, untimely may he lose,
      And lie unburied on the naked shore;
      With the last breath of life this pray'r I pour.
      And you, my Tyrian friends—thro' times extent
      On that curst race eternal hatred vent.
      These gifts, these honors, let my ashes reap,
      No peace, no treaty with that people keep.
      Rise, rise some vast avenger from my tomb,
      With fire with sword that Dardan breed consume.
      Now and as long as Fate the pow'r shall lend,
      May shore with shore—may wave with wave contend,
      So prays my soul—let arms with arms engage,
      And children's children war eternal wage.
 
 
      So Dido pray'd, while her distracted thought
      To shun light's hated beams, impatient sought.
      To Barce then, her husband's nurse, she said,
      (Her own at Tyre, within the tomb was laid).
      Go, Barce, go my sister hither bring
      With water sprinkled from the sacred spring;
      Bid her the victims lead, the rites prepare,
      And you yourself a sacred fillet wear:
      The rite began to Stygian Jove we'll end,
      My cares shall vanish as the flames ascend,
      His image wasting as the pyre consumes»;
      She spoke—the step of age officious haste assumes.
 
 
      But now the ripen'd project chill'd her soul;
      Thro' starting blood her eyeballs burning roll;
      Her cheek convuls'd with spots of livid red,
      All pale and ghastly, Death approaching spread.
      Strait to the court with darting stop she bends,
      With frantic haste the funeral pyle ascends,
      And from the scabbard draws the Dardan blade.
      (Sad gift, alas, for no such purpose made),
      But when the bed, and Trojan vest she view'd;
      That well known bed—she paus'd—and pensive stood.
      Tears found their way—once more that bed she prest
      As these last words her parting breath exprest.
      «Dear pledges! yes!—while heaven allow'd it so?
      Now take this soul–relieve me from this woe;
      I've liv'd, whatever fortune gave is o'er;
      No common shade I seek the dreary shore,
      My walls arise, I leave a glorious state;
      —Not unreveng'd I view'd my husband's fate;
      Alas, too happy—had the envious gales,
      To Lybia's coast, ne'er bent the Phrygian sails».
      She ceas'd—and kiss'd again the fatal bed: