HKB
pay my vows to Stygian Jove, And end the cares of my disastrous love; Then cast the Trojan image on the fire, And, as that burns, my passions shall expire.”
The nurse moves onward, with officious care, And all the speed her aged limbs can bear. But furious Dido, with dark thoughts involv’d, Shook at the mighty mischief she resolv’d. With livid spots distinguish’d was her face; Red were her rolling eyes, and discompos’d her pace; Ghastly she gaz’d, with pain she drew her breath, And nature shiver’d at approaching death.
Then swiftly to the fatal place she pass’d, And mounts the fun’ral pile with furious haste; Unsheathes the sword the Trojan left behind (Not for so dire an enterprise design’d). But when she view’d the garments loosely spread, Which once he wore, and saw the conscious bed, She paus’d, and with a sigh the robes embrac’d; Then on the couch her trembling body cast, Repress’d the ready tears, and spoke her last: “Dear pledges of my love, while Heav’n so pleas’d, Receive a soul, of mortal anguish eas’d: My fatal course is finish’d; and I go, A glorious name, among the ghosts below. A lofty city by my hands is rais’d, Pygmalion punish’d, and my lord appeas’d. What could my fortune have afforded more, Had the false Trojan never touch’d my shore!” Then kiss’d the couch; and, “Must I die,” she said, “And unreveng’d? ’Tis doubly to be dead! Yet ev’n this death with pleasure I receive: On any terms, ’tis better than to live. These flames, from far, may the false Trojan view; These boding omens his base flight pursue!”
She said, and struck; deep enter’d in her side The piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed: Clogg’d in the wound the cruel weapon stands; The spouting blood came streaming on her hands. Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke, And with loud cries the sounding palace shook. Distracted, from the fatal sight they fled, And thro’ the town the dismal rumour spread. First from the frighted court the yell began; Redoubled, thence from house to house it ran: The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies. Not less the clamour, than if ancient Tyre, Or the new Carthage, set by foes on fire, The rolling ruin, with their lov’d abodes, Involv’d the blazing temples of their gods.
Her sister hears; and, furious with despair, She beats her breast, and rends her yellow hair, And, calling on Eliza’s name aloud, Runs breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd. “Was all that pomp of woe for this prepar’d; These fires, this fun’ral pile, these altars rear’d? Was all this train of plots contriv’d,” said she, “All only to deceive unhappy me? Which is the worst? Didst thou in death pretend To scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend? Thy summon’d sister, and thy friend, had come; One sword had serv’d us both, one common tomb: Was I to raise the pile, the pow’rs invoke, Not to be present at the fatal stroke? At once thou hast destroy’d thyself and me, Thy town, thy senate, and thy colony! Bring water; bathe the wound; while I in death Lay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath.” This said, she mounts the pile with eager haste, And in her arms the gasping queen embrac’d; Her temples chaf’d; and her own garments tore, To stanch the streaming blood, and cleanse the gore. Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head, And, fainting thrice, fell grov’ling on the bed; Thrice op’d her heavy eyes, and sought the light, But, having found it, sicken’d at the sight, And clos’d her lids at last in endless night.