Without Lifting A Finger

Allecto ignited in rage. The challenge still on his lips, a sudden shuddering seized him, eyes fixed in terror, the Fury was looming up with so many serpents hissing, so monstrous her features now revealed. Rolling her eyes, fiery as he faltered, struggling to say more, she hurled the man back and reared twin snakes from her coiling hair and cracked her whips and raved in her rabid words: 530 “So, I’m in my dotage, am I? A doddering wreck too spent to see the truth? I and my warring kings— a mockery of a prophet, am I? False alarms? Well, look at these alarms! I come to you from the nightmare Furies’ den, I brandish war and death in my right hand!” With that she flung a torch at the prince and drove it home in his chest to smoke with a hellish black glare. A nightmare broke his sleep and the sweat poured from all over his body, drenched him to the bone.

Let me clasp your hand, my father, let me— I beg you, don’t withdraw from my embrace!” So Aeneas pleaded, his face streaming tears. Three times he tried to fling his arms around his neck, three times he embraced—nothing…the phantom 810 sifting through his fingers, light as wind, quick as a dream in flight.

Here the enormous whirlpool gapes aswirl with filth, seethes and spews out all its silt in the Wailing River. 340 And here the dreaded ferryman guards the flood, grisly in his squalor—Charon… his scraggly beard a tangled mat of white, his eyes fixed in a fiery stare, and his grimy rags hang down from his shoulders by a knot. But all on his own he punts his craft with a pole and hoists sail as he ferries the dead souls in his rust-red skiff. He’s on in years, but a god’s old age is hale and green.

Then Juno in all her power, filled with pity for Dido’s agonizing death, her labor long and hard, sped Iris down from Olympus to release her spirit wrestling now in a deathlock with her limbs. Since she was dying a death not fated or deserved, no, tormented, before her day, in a blaze of passion— Proserpina had yet to pluck a golden lock from her head and commit her life to the Styx and the dark world below. 870 So Iris, glistening dew, comes skimming down from the sky on gilded wings, trailing showers of iridescence shimmering into the sun, and hovering over Dido’s head, declares: “So commanded, I take this lock as a sacred gift to the God of Death, and I release you from your body.” With that, she cut the lock with her hand and all at once the warmth slipped away, the life dissolved in the winds.

Rereading Virgil's Aeneid (Fagle's translation). What I remembered is that many of the best parts were related to Dido.;) * Dido, her lips parted, pores over their entrails, throbbing still, for signs… 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 heart the silent wound lives on. Dido burns with love—the tragic queen.