Will bring no happy old age in his kingdom.

He’ll fall and lie unburied in the sand.

And now my last plea, gushing with my blood:

Tyrians, hound with hatred for all time

The race he founds. My ashes call from you

This service. Let there be no pacts of friendship.

Out of my grave let an avenger rise,

With fire and iron for Dardanian settlers—

Now—someday—when the power is there to strike.

Our shores will clash, weapons and seas collide.

My curse is war for Trojans and their children.”

She finished. Now her thoughts went everywhere,

Seeking the fastest way to leave the light.

She told the old nurse of Sychaeus, Barce

(Her own had died back in the fatherland),

“Darling, please bring my sister Anna—hurry!

Have her splash river water on her body

And bring the beasts and other offerings.

Cover your own brow with a pious fillet.

I’ll now round off the ritual I began

For Jove below the earth, to end my pain,

Putting to flame this pyre—the Trojan’s life.”

Quickly the fond old woman hobbled off.

Now Dido’s own grim plans had made her frantic.

Her red eyes darted, and her cheeks were blotched

And shook—but she grew pale in facing death.

She burst into the center of the house,

Frenzied, and climbed the pyre and drew the sword

From Troy—she hadn’t asked for it for this.

Here she surveyed the bed she knew so well,

And the Trojan clothes. In tearful contemplation

She lay a little while, and spoke these last words:

“Sweet spoils—while fate and god still kept you sweet—

Receive my breath and free me from this pain.

I lived, I ran the race that fate allotted.

I’ll send the underworld a noble ghost.

I saw the walls of my great city standing,

Avenged my husband, made my brother pay.

A happy—no, a more than happy life,

If Trojan ships had never touched these shores.”

She kissed the bed. “I die without revenge—

But let me die. I like this path to darkness.

Let the cruel Trojan’s eyes take in these flames.

The omen of my death will go with him.”

Her maids now saw her falling on her sword,

Still speaking, saw her blood foam down the blade

And fleck her hands. A shout rose to the rooftop,

And through the shaken city Rumor raged.

Long-drawn-out shrieks of grief and women’s keening

Brimmed from the buildings. Anguish filled the sky.

As if invading troops brought Carthage down—

Or ancient Tyre were sacked—and flames were scaling

The rooftops of the houses and the temples.

Her sister heard and ran to her in panic.

Clawing her cheeks, bruising her breast with blows.

As she plunged through the crowd, she called that doomed name.

“This was your purpose, sister—to deceive me?

The pyre, the flames, the altars bring me this?