wear:
The rite began to Stygian Jove we'll end,
My cares shall vanish as the flames ascend,
785 His image wasting as the pyre consumes";
She spoke--the step of age officious haste assumes.

But now the ripen'd project chill'd her soul;
Thro' starting blood her eyeballs burning roll;
Her cheek convuls'd with spots of livid red,
790 All pale and ghastly, Death approaching spread.
Strait to the court with darting stop she bends,
With frantic haste the funeral pyle ascends,
And from the scabbard draws the Dardan blade.
(Sad gift, alas, for no such purpose made),
795 But when the bed, and Trojan vest she view'd;
That well known bed--she paus'd--and pensive stood.
Tears found their way--once more that bed she prest
As these last words her parting breath exprest.
"Dear pledges! yes!--while heaven allow'd it so?
800 Now take this soul---relieve me from this woe;
I've liv'd, whatever fortune gave is o'er;
No common shade I seek the dreary shore,
My walls arise, I leave a glorious state;
--Not unreveng'd I view'd my husband's fate;
805 Alas, too happy--had the envious gales,
To Lybia's coast, ne'er bent the Phrygian sails".
She ceas'd--and kiss'd again the fatal bed:
"--And must I die--and none avenge me dead?
Yes, yes! I die, since fate will have it so,
Thus, even thus, well pleas'd beneath the shades I go;
810 These rising flames his cruel eye shall meet,
A dreadful omen to attend his fleet"!

With this they saw her falling on the sword;
Her blood along the reeking weapon pour'd,
815 Ran trickling down her hands.--Now horrid cries
Through all the palace all the town arise--
Fame blows the deed--loud shouts from heav'n rebound,
And groans and yells and female shrieks resound,
As loud and shrill as if to foes a prey,
820 Carthage or ancient Tyre abandon'd lay,
And thro' the temples and abodes of man,
Fierce flames with undistinguish'd fury ran.
Her sister hears the tumult of despair,
She starts--she tears her breast, she reads her hair,
825 And wildly bursting thro' the gathering crowd,
Calls on her dying sister's name aloud:
Dido--Dear sister--how am I betray'd!
For this, these flames--this pyre, these shrines I made.
Oh what complaints for me forlorn suffice!
850 Could yo