Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/125

Were bed and bridal aught but pain,
Perchance I had been weak again.
Dear Anna! aye, I will confess,
Since that wild moment of distress
When poor Sychæus foully bled,
And brother's crime a home made red,
He, he alone has touched my heart,
And made my faltering purpose start.
E'en in these ashen embers cold
I feel the spark I felt of old.
But first for me may Earth unseal
The horrors of her womb,
Or Jove with awful thunderpeal
Dismiss me into gloom,
The gloom of Orcus' dim twilight,
Or deeper still, primeval night,
Ere wound I thee, my woman's fame,
Or disallow thy sacred claim.
My heart to him on whom 'twas set
Has passed: and let him hold it yet,
And keep it in his tomb.'
She said, and speaking bathed her breast
With tears that would not be repressed.

Then Anna 'Sweeter than the day
To your fond sister's eye!
And will you pine your youth away
In loveless fantasy,
Nor wedded joy, nor children know,
As constancy were prized below?
Grant that no noble suitor yet
Has made your widowed heart forget,
In Libya now, as erst at Tyre:
Iarbas, and the rest who reign
In haughty Afric sued in vain:
But would you quench a welcome fire?