hrough the livelong night,
The solitary screech-owl's funeral song,
Wailing an endless dirge, the dismal notes prolong.

LX. Dim warnings, given by many an ancient seer,
Affright her. Ever wandering, ever lost,
In dreams she sees the fierce AEneas near,
And seeks her Tyrians on a lonely coast.
So raving Pentheus sees the Furies' host,
Twin suns and double Thebes. So, mad with Fate,
Blood-stained Orestes flees his mother's ghost,
Armed with black snakes and firebrands; at the gate
The avenging Fiends, close-crouched, the murderer await.

LXI. So now, possessed with Furies, the poor queen,
O'ercome with grief and resolute to die,
Settles the time and manner. Joy serene
Smiles on her brow, her purpose to belie,
And hope dissembled sparkles in her eye.
"Dear Anna," thus she hails with cheerful tone
Her weeping sister, "put thy sorrow by,
And joy with me. Indulgent Heaven hath shown
A way to gain his love, or rid me of my own.

LXII. "Near Ocean's limits and the sunset, lies
A far-off land, by AEthiopians owned,
Where mighty Atlas turns the spangled skies.
There a Massylian priestess I have found,
The warder of the Hesperian fane renowned.
'Twas hers to feed the dragon, hers to keep
The golden fruit, and guard the sacred ground,
The dragon's food in honied drugs to steep,
And mix the poppy drowse, that soothes the soul to sleep.

LXIII. "What souls she listeth, with her charms she claims
To free from passion, or with pains to smite
The love-sick heart; the planets all she tames,
And stays the rivers; and her voice of might
Calls forth the spirits from the realms of night.
Thyself the rumbling of the ground shalt hear,
And see the tall ash tumble from the height.
O, by the Gods, by thy sweet self I swear,
Loth am I, sister dear, these magic arms to wear.

LXIV. "Thou privily within the courtyard frame
A lofty pyre; his armour and attire
Heap on it, and the fatal couch of shame.
All relics of the wretch are doomed to fire;
So bids the priestess, and her charms require."
She ended, pale as death, and Anna plied
Her task, not dreaming of a rage so dire.
Nought worse she fears than when Sychaeus died,
Nor recks that these strange rites her purposed death could hide.

LXV. Now rose the pile within the courtyard's space,
Of oak and pine-wood, open to the wind.
Her