You, my crime's author, will my crime upbraid
Deep under ground, oh, let me first be laid!
You boast the pomp and plenty of your land,
And promise all shall be at my command;
Your Trojan wealth, believe me, I despise;
My own poor native land has dearer ties.
Should I be injured on your Phrygian shore,
What help of kindred could I there implore?
Medea was by Jason's flattery won;
I may, like her, believe, and be undone.
Plain honest hearts, like mine, suspect no cheat,
And love contributes to its own deceit ;
The ships, about whose sides loud tempests roar, With gentle winds were wafted from the shore. Your teeming mother dreamed, a flaming brand, 230 Sprung from her womb, consumed the Trojan land;
To second this, old prophecies conspire,
That Ilium shall be burnt with Grecian fire:
Both give me fear; nor is it much allayed,
That Venus is obliged our loves to aid.
For they, who lost their cause, revenge will take;
And for one friend two enemies you make.
Nor can I doubt, but, should I follow you,
The sword would soon our fatal crime pursue.
A wrong so great my husband's rage would rouse, 240
And my relations would his cause espouse.
You boast your strength and courage; but, alas !
Your words receive small credit from your face.
Let heroes in the dusty field delight,
Those limbs were fashioned for another fight.
Bid Hector sally from the walls of Troy;
A sweeter quarrel should your arms employ.
Yet fears like these should not my mind perplex,
Were I as wise as many of my sex;
But time and you may bolder thoughts inspire, 250 And I, perhaps, may yield to your desire.
You last demand a private conference;
These are your words, but I can guess your
Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend;
Be ruled by me, and time may be your friend.
This is enough to let you understand;
For now my pen has tired my tender hand.
My woman knows the secret of my heart,
And may hereafter better news impart.
Eneas, the son of Venus and Anchises, having, at the destruction of Troy, saved his Gods, his father, and son Ascanius, from the fire, put to sea with twenty sail of ships; and, having been long tost with tempests, was at last cast upon the shore of Libya, where Queen Dido (flying from the cruelty of Pygmalion, her brother, who had killed her husband Sichaus) had lately built Carthage. She entertained Æneas and his fleet with great civility, fell passionately in love with him, and in the end denied him not the last favours. But Mercury admonishing Eneas to go in search of Italy (a kingdom promised him by the Gods), he readily prepared to follow him. Dido soon perceived it, and, having in vain tried all other means to engage him to stay, at last, in despair, writes to him as follows.
on Mæander's banks, when death is nigh, The mournful swan sings her own elegy. Not that I hope (for, oh, that hope were vain !) By words your lost affection to regain; But, having lost whate'er was worth my care, Why should I fear to lose a dying prayer? 'Tis then resolved poor Dido must be left, Of life, of honour, and of love bereft! While you, with loosened sails, and vows,
To seek a land that flies the searcher's care;
Nor can my rising towers your flight restrain,
Nor my new empire, offered you in vain.
Built walls you shun, unbuilt you seek; that land
Is yet to conquer, but you this command.
Suppose you landed where your wish designed, 15
Think what reception foreigners would find,
What people is so void of common sense,
To vote succession from a native prince?
Yet there new sceptres and new loves you seek,
New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break. 20
When will your towers the height of Carthage
Or when your eyes discern such crowds below? If such a town and subjects you could see,
Still would you want a wife who loved liked
For, oh! I burn, like fires with incense bright; 25
Not holy tapers flame with purer light.
Eneas is my thoughts' perpetual theme,
Their daily longing, and their nightly dream.
Yet he's ungrateful and obdurate still;
Fool that I am to place my heart so ill!
Myself I cannot to myself restore;
Still I complain, and still I love him more.
Have pity, Cupid, on my bleeding heart,
And pierce thy brother's with an equal dart.
I rave; nor canst thou Venus' offspring be,
Love's mother could not bear a son like thee.
From hardened oak, or from a rock's cold womb,
At least thou art from some fierce tigress come;
Or on rough seas, from their foundation torn,
Got by the winds, and in a tempest born:
Like that, which now thy trembling sailors fear;
Like that, whose rage should still detain thee
here.
Behold how high the foamy billows ride!
The winds and waves are on the juster side.
To winter weather, and a stormy sea,
I'll owe what rather I would owe to thee.
Death thou deserv'st from heaven's avenging
laws;
But I'm unwilling to become the cause.
To shun my love, if thou wilt seek thy fate,
'Tis a dear purchase, and a costly hate.
Stay but a little, till the tempest cease,
And the loud winds are lulled into a peace.
May all thy rage, like theirs, inconstant prove!
And so it will, if there be power in love.
Know'st thou not yet what dangers ships sustain ? 55 So often wrecked, how darest thou tempt the
Which were it smooth, were every wave asleep,
Ten thousand forms of death are in the deep.
In that abyss the gods their vengeance store,
For broken vows of those who falsely swore ;
There winged storms on sea-born Venus wait,
To vindicate the justice of her state.
Thus I to thee the means of safety show;
And, lost myself, would still preserve my foe.
False as thou art, I not thy death design;
O rather live, to be the cause of mine!
Should some avenging storm thy vessel tear,
(But heaven forbid my words should omen bear!)
Then in thy face thy perjured vows would fly,
And my wronged ghost be present to thy eye;
With threatening looks think thou behold'st me
Gasping my mouth, and clotted all my hair. Then, should forked lightning and red thunder fall,
What couldst thou say, but, "I deserved them all"?
Lest this should happen, make not haste away; 75 To shun the danger will be worth thy stay.
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