SO, on Mæander’s banks, when death is nigh, | |
| The Mournful Swan sings her own Elegie. | |
| Not that I hope (for, oh, that hope were vain!) | |
| By words your lost affection to regain: | |
| But having lost what ere was worth my care, | 5 |
| Why shou’d I fear to lose a dying pray’r? | |
| ’Tis then resolv’d poor Dido must be left, | |
| Of Life, of Honour, and of Love bereft! | |
| While you, with loosen’d Sails, & Vows, prepare | |
| To seek a Land that flies the Searchers care. | 10 |
| Nor can my rising Tow’rs your flight restrain, | |
| Nor my new Empire, offer’d you in vain. | |
| Built Walls you shun, unbuilt you seek; that Land | |
| Is yet to Conquer; but you this Command. | |
| Suppose you Landed where your wish design’d, | 15 |
| Think what Reception Forreiners would find. | |
| What People is so void of common sence, | |
| To Vote Succession from a Native Prince? | |
| Yet there new Scepters and new Loves you seek; | |
| New Vows to plight, and plighted Vows to break. | 20 |
| When will your Tow’rs the height of Carthage know? | |
| Or when, your Eyes discern such Crowds below? | |
| If such a Town and Subjects you cou’d see, | |
| Still wou’d you want a Wife who lov’d like me. | |
| For, oh, I burn, like Fires with Incense bright: | 25 |
| Not holy Tapers flame with purer Light: | |
| Æneas is my Thoughts perpetual Theme; | |
| Their daily Longing, and their nightly Dream. | |
| Yet he ungrateful and obdurate still: | |
| Fool that I am to place my Heart so ill! | 30 |
| My self I cannot to my self restore; | |
| Still I complain, and still I love him more. | |
| Have pity, Cupid, on my bleeding Heart, | |
| And pierce thy Brothers with an equal Dart. | |
| I rave: nor canst thou Venus’ offspring be, | 35 |
| Love’s Mother could not bear a Son like thee. | |
| From harden’d Oak, or from a Rocks cold Womb, | |
| At least thou art from some fierce Tygress come; | |
| Or, on rough Seas, from their Foundation torn, | |
| Got by the Winds, and in a Tempest born: | 40 |
| Like that, which now thy trembling Sailors fear; | |
| Like that, whose Rage should still detain thee here. | |
| Behold how high the Foamy Billows ride! | |
| The Winds and Waves are on the juster side. | |
| To Winter Weather, and a stormy Sea | 45 |
| I’ll owe, what rather I wou’d owe to thee. | |
| Death thou deserv’st from Heav’ns avenging Laws; | |
| But I’m unwilling to become the Cause. | |
| To shun my Love, if thou wilt seek thy Fate, | |
| ’Tis a dear Purchase, and a costly Hate. | 50 |
| Stay but a little, ’till the Tempest cease, | |
| And the loud Winds are lull’d into a Peace. | |
| May all thy Rage, like theirs, unconstant prove! | |
| And so it will, if there be Pow’r in Love. | |
| Know’st thou not yet what dangers Ships sustain? | 55 |
| So often wrack’d, how dar’st thou tempt the Main? | |
| Which were it smooth, were ev’ry Wave asleep, | |
| Ten thousand forms of Death are in the Deep. | |
| In that abyss the Gods their Vengeance store, | |
| For broken Vows of those who falsely swore. | 60 |
| There winged Storms on Sea-born Venus wait, | |
| To vindicate the Justice of her State. | |
| Thus, I to thee the means of Safety show; | |
| And, lost my self, would still preserve my Foe. | |
| False as thou art, I not thy Death design: | 65 |
| O rather live, to be the Cause of mine! | |
| Shou’d some avenging Storm thy Vessel tear, | |
| (But Heav’n forbid my words shou’d Omen bear) | |
| Then in thy Face thy perjur’d Vows would fly; | |
| And my wrong’d Ghost be present to thy Eye. | 70 |
| With threatning looks think thou behold’st me stare, | |
| Gasping my Mouth, and clotted all my Hair. | |
| Then shou’d fork’d Lightning and red Thunder fall, | |
| What cou’dst thou say, but, I deserv’d ’em all. | |
| Lest this shou’d happen, make not hast away; | 75 |
| To shun the Danger will be worth thy Stay. | |
| Have pity on thy Son, if not on me: | |
| My Death alone is Guilt enough for thee. | |
| What has his Youth, what have thy Gods deserv’d, | |
| To sink in Seas, who were from fires preserv’d? | 80 |
| But neither Gods nor Parent didst thou bear; | |
| (Smooth stories all, to please a Womans ear,) | |
| False was the tale of thy Romantick life; | |
| Nor yet am I thy first deluded Wife. | |
| Left to pursuing Foes Creüsa stai’d, | 85 |
| By thee, base Man, forsaken and betray’d. | |
| This, when thou told’st me, struck my tender Heart, | |
| That such Requital follow’d such Desert. | |
| Nor doubt I but the Gods, for Crimes like these, | |
| Sev’n Winters kept thee wandring on the Seas. | 90 |
| Thy starv’d Companions, cast ashore, I fed, | |
| Thy self admitted to my Crown and Bed. | |
| To harbour Strangers, succour the distrest, | |
| Was kind enough; but oh too kind the rest! | |
| Curst be the Cave which first my Ruin brought, | 95 |
| Where, from the Storm, we common shelter sought! | |
| A dreadful howling eccho’d round the place: | |
| The Mountain Nymphs, thought I, my Nuptials grace. | |
| I thought so then, but now too late I know | |
| The Furies yell’d my Funerals from below. | 100 |
| O Chastity and violated Fame, | |
| Exact your dues to my dead Husband’s name! | |
| By Death redeem my reputation lost, | |
| And to his Arms restore my guilty Ghost. | |
| Close by my Pallace, in a Gloomy Grove, | 105 |
| Is rais’d a Chappel to my Murder’d Love; | |
| There, wreath’d with boughs and wool his Statue stands | |
| The pious Monument of Artful hands. | |
| Last Night, me thought, he call’d me from the dome | |
| And thrice, with hollow Voice, cry’d, Dido, come. | 110 |
| She comes; thy Wife thy lawful Summons hears; | |
| But comes more slowly, clogg’d with conscious Fears. | |
| Forgive the wrong I offer’d to thy Bed; | |
| Strong were his Charms, who my weak Faith misled. | |
| His Goddess Mother, and his aged Sire, | 115 |
| Born on his Back, did to my Fall conspire. | |
| Oh such he was, and is, that were he true, | |
| without a Blush I might his Love pursue. | |
| But cruel Stars my Birth day did attend; | |
| And as my Fortune open’d, it must end. | 120 |
| My plighted Lord was at the Altar slain, | |
| Whose Wealth was made my bloody Brothers gain. | |
| Friendless, and follow’d by the Murd’rer’s Hate, | |
| To forein Countreys I remov’d my Fate; | |
| And here, a Suppliant, from the Natives hands | 125 |
| I bought the Ground on which my City stands, | |
| With all the Coast that stretches to the Sea; | |
| Ev’n to the friendly Port that sheltred Thee: | |
| Then rais’d these Walls, which mount into the Air, | |
| At once my Neighbours wonder, and their fear. | 130 |
| For now they Arm; and round me Leagues are made, | |
| My scarce Establisht Empire to invade. | |
| To Man my new built walls I must prepare, | |
| An helpless Woman, and unskill’d in War. | |
| Yet thousand Rivals to my Love pretend; | 135 |
| And for my Person, would my Crown defend: | |
| Whose jarring Votes in one complaint agree, | |
| That each unjustly is disdain’d for thee. | |
| To proud Hyarbas give me up a prey; | |
| (For that must follow, if thou go’st away:) | 140 |
| Or to my Husbands Murd’rer leave my life, | |
| That to the Husband he may add the Wife. | |
| Go then, since no Complaints can move thy Mind: | |
| Go, perjur’d Man, but leave thy Gods behind. | |
| Touch not those Gods, by whom thou art forsworn, | 145 |
| Who will in impious Hands no more be born. | |
| Thy Sacrilegious worship they disdain, | |
| And rather wou’d the Grecian fires sustain. | |
| Perhaps my greatest Shame is still to come; | |
| And part of thee lies hid within my Womb. | 150 |
| The Babe unborn must perish by thy Hate, | |
| And perish guiltless in his Mothers Fate. | |
| Some God, thou say’st, thy Voyage does command; | |
| Wou’d the same God had barr’d thee from my Land! | |
| The same, I doubt not, thy departure Steers, | 155 |
| Who kept thee out at Sea so many Years; | |
| While thy long Labours were a Price so great, | |
| As thou to purchase Troy wouldst not repeat. | |
| But Tyber now thou seek’st; to be at best, | |
| When there arriv’d, a poor precarious Ghest. | 160 |
| Yet it deludes thy Search: Perhaps it will | |
| To thy Old Age lie undiscover’d still. | |
| A ready Crown and Wealth in Dower I bring, | |
| And, without Conqu’ring, here thou art a King. | |
| Here thou to Carthage may’st transfer thy Troy: | 165 |
| Here young Ascanius may his Arms imploy; | |
| And, while we live secure in soft Repose, | |
| Bring many Laurells home from Conquer’d Foes. | |
| By Cupids Arrows, I adjure thee stay; | |
| By all the Gods, Companions of thy way. | 170 |
| So may thy Trojans, who are yet alive | |
| Live still, and with no future Fortune strive; | |
| So may thy Youthful Son old Age attain, | |
| And thy dead Fathers Bones in Peace remain; | |
| As thou hast Pity on unhappy me, | 175 |
| Who knew no Crime, but too much Love of thee. | |
| I am not born from fierce Achilles Line, | |
| Nor did my Parents against Troy combine. | |
| To be thy Wife if I unworthy prove, | |
| By some inferiour Name admit my Love. | 180 |
| To be secur’d of still possessing thee, | |
| What wou’d I do, and what wou’d I not be! | |
| Our Lybian Coasts their certain Seasons know, | |
| When free from Tempests Passengers may go: | |
| But now with Northern Blasts the Billows roar, | 185 |
| And drive the floating Sea-weed to the Shore. | |
| Leave to my care the time to Sail away; | |
| When safe, I will not suffer thee to stay. | |
| Thy weary Men wou’d be with ease content; | |
| Their Sails are tatter’d, and their Masts are spent. | 190 |
| If by no Merit I thy Mind can move, | |
| What thou deny’st my Merit, give my Love. | |
| Stay, till I learn my Loss to undergo; | |
| And give me time to struggle with my Woe. | |
| If not; Know this, I will not suffer long; | 195 |
| My Life’s too loathsome, and my Love too strong. | |
| Death holds my Pen, and dictates what I say, | |
| While cross my Lap Thy Trojan Sword I lay. | |
| My Tears flow down; the sharp Edge cuts their Flood, | |
| And drinks my Sorrows, that must drink my bloud. | 200 |
| How well thy Gift does with my Fate agree! | |
| My Funeral Pomp is cheaply made by thee. | |
| To no new Wounds my Bosom I display: | |
| The Sword but enters where Love made the way. | |
| But thou, dear Sister, and yet dearer friend, | 205 |
| Shalt my cold Ashes to their Urn attend. | |
| Sichæus Wife let not the Marble boast, | |
| I lost that Title, when my Fame I lost. | |
| This short Inscription only let it bear: | |
| Unhappy Dido lies in quiet here. | 210 |
| The cause of death, & Sword by which she dy’d, | |
| Æneas gave: the rest her arm supply’d. | |
| |
