Her sister heard, and through the concourse came, And tore her cheeks and beat her bosom fair, And called upon the dying Queen by name.
"Sister! was this thy secret?
thine this snare?
For me this fraud?
For this did I prepare That pyre, those flames and altars?
This the end?
Ah me, forlorn! what worse remains to bear?
Would'st thou in death desert me, and pretend To scorn a sister's care, and shun me as a friend?
XC.

"Thou should'st have called me to thy doom! One stroke, A moment's pang, and we had ceased to sigh.
Reared I this pyre, did I the gods invoke To leave thee thus companionless, to die?
Lo, all are dead together, thou and I, Town, princes, people, perished in a day.
Bring water; let me close the lightless eye, And bathe those wounds, and kiss those lips of clay, And catch one fluttering breath, if yet, perchance, I may!" XCI.

So saying, she climbs the steps, and, groaning sore, Clasps to her breast her sister ere she dies, And stanches with her robe the streaming gore.
In vain poor Dido lifts her wearied eyes, The closing eyelids sicken at the skies.
Deep gurgles in her breast the deadly wound; Thrice on her elbow she essays to rise, Thrice back she sinks.

With wandering eyes all round She seeks the light of heaven, and moans when it is found.
XCII.

Then Juno, pitying her agony Of lingering death, sent Iris down with speed.
Her struggling soul from clinging limbs to free.
For since by Fate, or for her own misdeed She perished not, but, ere the day decreed, Fell in the frenzy of her love's despair, Not yet Proserpina had claimed her meed, And shorn the ringlet of her golden hair, And bade the sacred shade to Stygian realms repair.
XCIII.