By death redeem my reputation loft,
And to his arms reftore my guilty ghoft.
Close by my palace, in a gloomy grove,
Is rais'd a chapel to my murder'd love;

There, wreath'd with boughs and wool, his ftatue ftands,

The pious monument of artful hands.

Last night, methought, he call'd me from the dome,

And thrice, with hollow voice, cry'd, Dido, come. She comes; thy wife thy lawful fummons hears; But comes more flowly, 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 fire

Born on his back, did to my

fall confpire.

Oh! fuch 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.
My plighted lord was at the altar flain,

;

Whofe wealth was made my bloody brother's gain.

Friendless, and follow'd by the murd❜rer's hate,

To foreign countries I remov'd

my

fate;

And here, a fuppliant, from the natives hands
I bought the ground on which my city stands,
With all the coaft that stretches to the fea;
E'en to the friendly port that shelter'd thee:
Then rais'd these walls, which mount into the air,
At once my neighbours wonder, and their fear.
For now they arm; and round me leagues are
made,

My scarce establish'd 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;

And for my perfon would my crown defend:
Whose jarring votes in one complaint agree,
That each unjustly is difdain'd for thee.
To proud Hyarbas give me up a prey;
(For that must follow, if thou goest away.)
Or to my husband's murd'rer leave my life,
That to the husband, he may add the wife.
Go then, fince no complaints can move thy mind:
Go, perjur'd man, but leave thy Gods behind.
Touch not thofe Gods, by whom thou art forfworn,
Who will in impious hands no more be born :
Thy facrilegious worship they difdain,

And rather would the Grecian fires sustain.

Perhaps my greatest shame is ftill to come, ■ And part of thee lies hid within my womb. The babe unborn must perish by thy hate, And perish guiltlefs in his mother's fate. Some God, thou fay'ft, thy voyage does command; Would the fame God had barr'd thee from my land!

The fame, I doubt not, thy departure fteers,
Who kept thee out at fea fo many years;
While thy long labors were a price fo great,
As thou to purchase Troy would'st not repeat.
But Tyber now thou feek'ft, to be at best,
When there arriv'd, a poor precarious guest.
Yet it deludes thy fearch: perhaps it will
To thy old age lie undiscover'd ftill.

A ready crown and wealth in dow'r I bring,
And, without conqu'ring, here thou art a king.
Here thou to Carthage may'ft transfer thy Troy:
Here young Afcanius may his arms employ;
And, while we live fecure in foft repose,
Bring many laurels home from conquer'd foes.
By Cupid's arrows, I adjure thee stay;.
By all the Gods, companions of thy way.
So may thy Trojans, who are yet alive,
Live ftill, and with no future fortune ftrive;

So may thy youthful son old

age attain,

And thy dead father's bones in peace remain :

As thou haft pity on unhappy me,

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 fome inferior name admit my love.
To be fecur'd of ftill poffeffing thee,

What would I do, and what would I not be!
Our Libyan coafts their certain seasons know,
When free from tempefts paffengers may go:
But now with northern blasts the billows roar,
And drive the floating fea-weed to the fhore.
Leave to my care the time to fail away;
When fafe, I will not fuffer thee to stay.

Thy weary men would be with ease content;
Their fails are tatter'd, and their mafts are spent.
If by no merit I thy mind can move,

What thou deny'ft my merit, give my love.
Stay, 'till I learn my lofs to undergo;

And give me time to ftruggle with my woe.
If not, know this, I will not fuffer long;
My life's too loathfome, and my love too strong.

Death holds my pen and dictates what I say,
While cross my lap the Trojan sword I lay.

My tears flow down; the fharp edge cuts their

flood,

And drinks my

forrows that muft drink

my blood.
How well thy gift does with my fate agree!
My fun'ral pomp is cheaply made by thee.
To no new wounds my bofom I display:
The sword but enters where love made the way.
But thou, dear fifter, and yet dearer friend,
Shalt my cold afhes to their urn attend.
Sichæus' wife let not the marble boast,
I loft that title, when my fame I loft.
This fhort infcription only let it bear:
Unhappy Dido lies in quiet here.

"The cause of death, and fword by which the dy'd,
Æneas gave the rest her arm supply'd.”

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