Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/138

114 Nay, you would sail 'neath winter's sky,

And through the rush, of tempests fly,

Ah cruel! Sure, if lands unknown

Were not to seek, were Troy your own,

E'en for that Troy, your ancient home,

You ne'er would cross yon angry foam.

From me you fly! Ah! let me crave,

By these poor tears, that hand you gave—

Since, parting with my woman's pride,

My madness leaves me nought beside—

By that our wedlock, by the rite

Which, but begun, could yet unite,

If e'er my kindness held you bound,

If e'er in me your joy you found,

Look on this falling house, and still,

If prayer can touch you, change your will.

For you I angered Libyan hordes,

Woke jealous hate in Nomad lords,

Lost Tyrian hearts: for you, the same,

I trampled on my own good name,

That wifely honour, which alone

Had placed me on a starry throne.

Think, think to whom you make bequest

Of dying Dido, gentle guest!

Since fate but that cold name allows

To him whom once I called my spouse.

Why should I live to see my town

By my fierce brother battered down,

Or e'en myself a captive led

To Moor Iarbas' bridal bed?

Ah! had I, ere you chose to rove,

Ta'en from your arms some pledge of love,

Some child Æneas to recall

Your face, and gambol in my hall,

The sire had cheered me in the son,

Nor had I seemed so all undone.'