  “Up, then, Melpomene! the mournfulest Muse of Nine, —Spenser. “ON such a night,” as Shakespeare once remarked, On such a night as lovers love to spoon, Aeneas in his cockleshell embarked And left poor Dido weeping ’neath the moon; A palm-leaf in her hand, as Shakespeare said, The crown of ancient Carthage on her head; ’Twas thus Aeneas jilted the fair dame And put the chivalry of Greece to shame. Fair Dido, to go back a little way, Had fled the vengeance of her brother’s ire, Who slew her wealthy husband one fine day And chased his widowed sister out of Tyre; Pygmalion was the name he bore at court, Though Dido always called him “Pyg” for short; Methinks the greedy nature of the youth Made Dido’s nickname fit him well in truth. Arriving, then, on Afric’s sunny shore With some few friends who followed in her train, She built herself some houses and a store, Laid out a street and called it Lover’s Lane. And since the town was hers, none could gainsay Her right to royal rule and social sway; And so it is quite easy to be seen How, when Aeneas came, he found her queen. Aeneas and some refugees from Troy Were wandering about uncharted seas; Aeneas had a cold—unlucky boy! (’Twould wring your heart to hear his mournful sneeze!) In fact, they all were troubled as to nose, Clad as they were in lightest marching clothes; So when they came at last to Dido’s land, They were a sick and sorry-looking band. “Not unacquainted with distress,” she said, “I’ve learned to succor all the down and out;” Straightway she had them all tucked into bed, And caused her heralds in the street to shout: “Queen Dido seeks a sovereign cure for chills, Bring mustard plasters, poultices and pills; The victor she’ll reward and make his name A synonym for fortune and for fame.” As always, when incentive is supplied, Some pharmacist got busy on the spot, Made little pills with quinine stuffed inside; She made him rich, but famous he is not. We take them now, but who is there can tell The doctor who first served mankind so well? But let us haste—this yarn, beyond all doubt, Grows dull apace, and slow, and long-drawn-out. To cut it short; she loved him; he loved her; He stuck around; she made him quite at home; The two were quite domestic I infer Until Aeneas took a boat for Rome. Rome wasn’t there—but what cared he for that? ’Most any town will do to dodge a flat; Aeneas felt that he could love that spot, Where’er it be—so be Dido was not. Dido, deserted, built a funeral pyre, On which she mounted with a wicked knife; She bade a servant set the thing afire, And with the dagger put an end to life. So perished Dido; died, oh died for love! So Dido died, as I have said above, Sweet Dido, loveliest lady of the land, On such a night—a palm-leaf in her hand! The Moral? This is not a moral tale. What do we learn from it? Well, I should say We learn that merry widows sometimes fail, And cutting didoes doesn’t always pay. |
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