Hid in these strange rites, or suspect such frenzy—

What could be worse than when Sychaeus died?

She did as she was told.

Deep in the house, beneath the sky, a pyre

Now towered high with logs of pine and oak.

The queen festooned the walls with funeral garlands.

Conscious of what must be, she put his picture

On the bed, above his sword and cast-off clothes.

Altars encircled her. The loose-haired priestess

Shouted three hundred gods’ names—Erebus, Chaos,

Three-faced Diana, who is triple Hecate.

She sprinkled drops she said were from Avernus.

Herbs appeared, cut with bronze knives at the full moon,

Swollen and oozing coal-black milk of poison;

A love charm too, torn from a new foal’s forehead

Before the mare could get it.

Dido, with sacred meal in clean hands, robes loose,

One sandal off, now stood at the high altar,

Called gods, called fate-wise stars as witnesses.

She prayed to anything in heaven that sees

And punishes a broken bond of love.

Now it was night, and all earth’s weary creatures

Slept peacefully. The woods and savage waters

Were still. The stars were halfway through their journeys

Above the tranquil fields. Cattle and bright birds

Of the broad lakes and brambly wilderness

All lay asleep beneath the noiseless sky,

Their troubles soothed, their sufferings forgotten—

But not the desolate Phoenician queen.

Her heart and eyes shunned darkness and the ease

Of sleep. Her torments thronged, her love ran wild—

They came and went on seething tides of madness.

Her heart was churning with unceasing questions:

“What should I do? Go back where I’ll be laughed at,

And beg to marry a Numidian prince

After I turned those suitors all away?

Follow the Trojan ships and do whatever

The Trojans order? Surely they’ll recall

The help I gave and, for the past’s sake, help me.

But then again, would they allow the outcast

On their proud ships? Poor fool, you’re not familiar

With the treachery of Laomedon’s descendants?

Would I trail those cheering sailors all alone,

A deserter? Would I take my Tyrian ranks

As escorts? Would those barely torn from Sidon

Endure another sea voyage on my orders?

No, die—you’ve earned it. Give the sword your sorrow.

But you, my sister, weakened by my tears,

Turned folly to disaster and defeat.

I could not live a blameless life, unmarried,

Like a wild thing, and be spared this agony:

I broke my promise to the dead Sychaeus.”

Out of her heart these words of sorrow broke.

Aeneas was asleep on the high stern,

In confidence that everything was ready—

When in a dream he saw the god again:

The form had Mercury’s face and his complexion,

His yellow hair and handsome young man’s body.

And it renewed the warning from before:

“You sleep, child of the goddess, while disaster

Teeters above, and perils lurk around?