And Dido saw them With who knows what emotion: there she stood On the high citadel, and saw, below her, The whole beach boiling, and the water littered With one ship after another, and men yelling, Excited over their work, and there was nothing For her to do but sob or choke with anguish. There is nothing to which the hearts of men and women Cannot be driven by love. Break into tears, Try prayers again, humble the pride, leave nothing Untried, and die in vain:--“Anna, you see them Coming from everywhere; they push and bustle All up and down the shore: the sails are swelling, The happy sailors garlanding the vessels. If I could hope for grief like this, my sister, I shall be able to bear it. But one service Do for me first, dear Anna, out of pity. You were the only one that traitor trusted, Confided in; you know the way to reach him, The proper time and place. Give him this message, Our arrogant enemy: tell him I never Swore with the Greeks at Aulis to abolish The Trojan race, I never sent a fleet To Pergamus, I never desecrated The ashes or the spirit of Anchises: Why does he, then, refuse to listen to me? What is the hurry? Let him give his lover The one last favor: only wait a little, Only a little while, for better weather And easy flight. He has betrayed the marriage, I do not ask for that again; I do not Ask him to give up Latium and his kingdom. Mere time is all I am asking, a breathing-space, A brief reprieve, until my luck has taught me To reconcile defeat and sorrow. This Is all I ask for, sister; pity and help me: If he grants me this, I will pay it ten times over After my death.” And Anna, most unhappy, Over and over, told her tears, her pleading; No tears, no pleading, move him; no man can yield When a god stops his ears. As northern winds Sweep over Alpine mountains, in their fury Fighting each other to uproot an oak-tree Whose ancient strength endures against their roaring And the trunk shudders and the leaves come down Strewing the ground, but the old tree clings to the mountain, Its roots as deep toward hell as its crest toward heaven, And still holds on--even so, Aeneas, shaken By storm-blasts of appeal, by voices calling From every side, is tossed and torn, and steady. His will stays motionless, and tears are vain.