"This heritage be yours; no truce nor trust 'Twixt theirs and ours, no union or accord Arise, unknown Avenger from our dust; With fire and steel upon the Dardan horde Mete out the measure of their crimes' reward.
To-day, to-morrow, for eternity Fight, oft as ye are able--sword with sword, Shore with opposing shore, and sea with sea; Fight, Tyrians, all that are, and all that e'er shall be." LXXXIII.

So spake the queen, and pondered in her breast How of her loathed life to clip the thread, Then briefly thus Sychaeus' nurse addressed (Her own at Tyre lay buried)--"Haste," she said, "Dear Barce; call my sister; let her head With living water from the lustral bough Be sprinkled.

Hither be the victims led, And due atoning offerings, and thou Bring forth the sacred wreath, and bind it on thy brow.
LXXXIV.

"The sacrifice, prepared for Stygian Jove, I purpose now to consummate, and pay The last sad rites, and ease me of my love, And burn the couch whereon the Dardan lay." She spake; the old dame tottering hastes away.
Maddening stood Dido at the doom so dread, With bloodshot eyes and trembling with dismay, Her quivering cheeks flecked with the burning red, Pale with approaching death, but yearning to be dead.
LXXXV.

So bursting through the inner doors she flew And, with wild frenzy, climbed the lofty pyre, Then seized the scabbard he had left, and drew The sword, ne'er given for an end so dire.
But when, with eyes still wistful with desire, She viewed the bed that she had known too well, The Ilian raiment and the chief's attire, She paused, then musing, while the teardrops fell, Sank on the fatal couch, and cried a last farewell: LXXXVI.