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| Just as, all too often, some huge crowd is seized by a vast uprising, the rabble runs amok, all slaves to passion, rocks, firebrands flying. Rage finds them arms but then, if they chance to see a man among them, one whose devotion and public service lend him weight, they stand there, stock still with theri ears alert as he rules their furor with his words and calms their passion. So the crash of the breakers all fell silent once their father, gazing over his realm under clear skies, flicks his horses, giving them free rein, and his eager chariot flies. |
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| The Tyrians press on with the work, some aligning the walls, struggling to raise the citadel, trundling stones up slopes; some picking up the building sites and plowing out their boundaries, others drafting laws, electing judges, a senate held in awe. Here they're dredging a harbor, there they lay foundations deep for a theater, quarrying out of rock great columns to form a fitting scene for stages still to come. As hard as their task as bees in early summer, that work the bloooming meadows under the sun, they escort a new brood out, young adults now, or press the oozing honey into the combs, the nectar brimming the bulging cells, or gather up the plunder workers haul back in,or close ranks like an army, driving the drones, that lazy crew, from home. they hive seethes with life, exhaling the scent of honey sweet with thyme. |
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| But, oh, how little they know, the omniscient seers. What good are prayers and shrines to a person mad with love? The flame keeps gnawing into her tender marrow hour by hour and deep in her hearth the silent wound lives on. Dido burns with love-the tragic queen. She wanders in frenzy through her city streets like a wounded doe caught all off guard by a hunter |
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| Almighty Jove! Now as the moors adore you, feasting away on their gaudy couches, tipping wine in your honor-do you see this? Are we all fools, Father to dread the bolts you hurl? All aimless then, your fires high in the clouds that terrify us so? All empty noise your peals of grumbling thunder? That woman, that vagrant! Here in my own land she founded her paltry city for a pittance |
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| You, so now you lay foundation stones for the soaring walls of Carthage! Building her gorgeous city, doting on your wife. Blind to your own realm, oblivious to your fate! The King of the Gods, whose power sways earth and sky-he is the one who sends me down from brilliant olympus, bearing commands for you through the racing winds.What are you plotting now? Wasting time in Libya-what hoe misleads you so? If such a glorious destiny cannot fire your spirit, at least remember Ascanius rising into his prime, the hopes you lodge in Iulus, your only heir-you owe him Italy's realm, the land of Rome! |
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