Even so Beset with prayers, the hero stands distrest; So vain are Anna's tears, so moveless is his breast.
LVIII.

Then--then unhappy Dido prays to die, Maddened by Fate, aweary of the day, Aweary of the over-arching sky.
And lo! an omen seems to chide delay, And steel her purpose.

As, in act to pay Her gifts, with incense at the shrine she kneels, Black turns the water, horrible to say; To loathsome gore the sacred wine congeals.
Not e'en to Anna's self this vision she reveals.
LIX.

Nay more; within the precincts of her house There stood a marble shrine, with garlands bright And snow-white fleeces, sacred to her spouse.
Hence, oft as darkness shrouds the world from sight, Voices she hears, and accents of affright, As though Sychaeus told aloud his wrong, Hears from the roof-top, through 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.