She spoke, and turned her purpose to accomplish The quickest end to the life she hated. Briefly She spoke to Barce, Sychaeus’ nurse; her own Was dust and ashes in her native country:-- “Dear nurse, bring me my sister, tell her to hurry, Tell her to sprinkle her body with river water, To bring the sacrificial beast and offerings, And both of you cover your temples with holy fillets. I have a vow to keep; I have made beginning Of rites to Stygian Jove, to end my sorrows, To burn the litter of that Trojan leader.” Barce, with an old woman’s fuss and bustle, Went hurrying out of sight; but Dido, trembling, Wild with her project, the blood-shot eyeballs rolling, Pale at the death to come, and hectic color Burning the quivering cheeks, broke into the court, Mounted the pyre in madness, drew the sword, The Trojan gift, bestowed for no such purpose, And she saw the Trojan garments, and the bed She knew so well, and paused a little, weeping, Weeping, and thinking, and flung herself down on it, Uttering her last words:-- “Spoils that were sweet while gods and fate permitted, Receive my spirit, set me free from suffering. I have lived, I have run the course that fortune gave me, And now my shade, a great one, will be going Below the earth. I have built a noble city, I have seen my walls, I have avenged a husband, Punished a hostile brother. I have been Happy, I might have been too happy, only The Trojans made their landing.” She broke off, Pressed her face to the couch, cried:--“So, we shall die, Die unavenged; but let us die. So, so,-- I am glad to meet the darkness. Let his eyes Behold this fire across the sea, an omen Of my death going with him.”
As she spoke, Her handmaids saw her, fallen on the sword, The foam of blood on the blade, and blood on the hands. A scream rings through the house; Rumor goes reeling, Rioting, through the shaken town; the palace Is loud with lamentation, women sobbing, Wailing and howling, and the vaults of heaven Echo the outcry, as if Tyre or Carthage Had fallen to invaders, and the fury Of fire came rolling over homes and temples. Anna, half lifeless, heard in panic terror, Came rushing through them all, beating her bosom, Clawing her face:--“Was it for this, my sister? To trick me so? The funeral pyre, the altars, Prepared this for me? I have, indeed, a grievance, Being forsaken; you would not let your sister Companion you in death? You might have called me To the same fate; we might have both been taken, One sword, one hour. I was the one who built it, This pyre, with my own hands; it was my voice That called our fathers’ gods, for what?--to fail you When you were lying here. You have killed me, sister, Not only yourself, you have killed us all, the people, The town. Let me wash the wounds with water, Let my lips catch what fluttering breath still lingers.” She climbed the lofty steps, and held her sister, A dying woman, close; she used her robe To try to stop the bleeding. And Dido tried In vain to raise her heavy eyes, fell back, And her wound made a gurgling hissing sound. Three times she tried to lift herself; three times Fell back; her rolling eyes went searching heaven And the light hurt when she found it, and she moaned.