Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/154

Her sister hears, and, wild with fears,
All breathless through the throng she flies:
Rends cheek of rose, beats breast of snows,
And loud on dying Dido cries:
'Ah sister! was it this you meant,
And am I trapped by guile?
Was this the innocent intent
Of altar-fire and pile?
What first arraign when all is drear?
And might not Anna tarry near
Her Dido's dying bed?
You should have bid me share your doom:
One pang had borne us to the tomb,
One hour the twain had sped.
Nay, with these hands the pile I reared
And called the gods our father feared,
That you might lay you down to die,
And I be absent, heartless I!
See here, yourself and me foredone,
Town, people, princes, all in one!
Bring water from yon running wave:
These bleeding wounds I yet can lave,
And fondly catch whate'er of breath
Ts flickering on the lips of death.'
She spoke, and speaking mounts the stair,
Clasps to her breast the expiring fair,
Enfolds her in her robe, and dries
The purple that her bosom dyes.
The dull eyes ope, as drowsed by sleep,
Then close: the death-wound gurgles deep.
Thrice on her arm she raised her head,
Thrice sank exhausted on the bed,
Stared with blank gaze aloft, around
For light, and groaned as light she found.