And yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see
A son, whose death disgrac'd his ancestry:
Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev'd:
Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv'd:
He died no death to make thee wish, too late,
Thou hadst not liv'd to see his shameful fate.
But what a champion has th' Ausonian coast,
And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!"
Thus having mourn'd, he gave the word

around

To raise the breathless body from the ground;
And chose a thousand horse, the flow'r of all
His warlike troops, to wait the funeral,
To bear him back and share Evander's grief-
A well-becoming, but a weak relief.
Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier,
Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear.
The body on his rural hearse is borne:
Strew'd leaves and fun'ral greens the bier adorn.
All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow'r,
New cropt by virgin hands, to dress the bow'r:
Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below, [shall owe.
No more to mother-earth or the green stem
Then two fair vests, of wond'rous work and cost,
Of purple woven, and with gold emboss'd,
For ornament the Trojan hero brought,
Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
One vest array'd the corpse; and one they
spread

O'er his clos'd eyes, and wrapt around his head.
That, when the yellow hair in flame should fall,
The catching fire might burn the golden caul.
Besides, the spoils of foes in battle slain,
When he descended on the Latian plain-
Arms, trappings, horses-by the hearse are led
In long array-th' achievements of the dead.
Then pinion'd with their hands behind, appear
Th' unhappy captives, marching in the rear,
Appointed off'rings in the victor's name,
To sprinkle with their blood the fun'ral flame.
Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne:
Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn;
And fair inscriptions fix'd, and titles read
Of Latian leaders conquer'd by the dead.

Acœtes on his pupil's corpse attends,
With feeble steps, supported by his friends.
Pausing at every pace, in sorrow drown'd,
Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground;
Where grov'ling while he lies in deep despair,
He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.
The champion's chariot next is seen to roll,
Besmear'd with hostile blood, and honourably
foul.

To close the pomp, Ethon, the steed of state,
Is led, the fun'rals of his lord to wait.
Stripp'd of his trappings, with a sullen pace
He walks; and the big tears run rolling down
his face.

The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest, Are borne behind: the victor seiz'd the rest

The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound:

The pikes and lances trail along the ground.
Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse
To Palantean tow'rs direct their course,
In long procession rank'd; the pious chief
Stopp'd in the rear, and gave a vent to grief.
"The public care," he said, "which war at-
tends,

Diverts our present woes, at least suspends.
Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell!
Hail, holy relics! and a last farewell!"
He said no more, but, inly though he mourn'd,
Restrain'd his tears, and to the camp return'd.
Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, de-

mand

A truce, with olive-branches in their hand:
Obtest his clemency, and from the plain
Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain.
They plead, that none those common rites
deny

To conquer'd foes that in fair battle die.
All cause of hate was ended in their death;
Nor could he war with bodies void of breath.
A king, they hop'd, would hear a king's re-
quest,

Whose son he once was call'd, and once his guest.

Their suit, which was too just to be denied, The hero grants, and farther thus replied: "O Latian princes! how severe a fate In causeless quarrels has involv'd your state, And arm'd against an unoffending man, Who sought your friendship ere the war began; You beg a truce, which I would gladly give, Not only for the slain, but those who live. I came not hither but by heav'n's command, And sent by fate to share the Latian land. Nor wage I wars unjust: your king denied My proffer'd friendship and my promis'd bride; Left me for Turnus. Turnus then should try His cause in arms, to conquer or to die. My right and his are in dispute: the slain Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain. In equal arms let us alone contend; And let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend. This is the way (so tell him) to possess The royal virgin, and restore the peace. Bear this my message back-with ample leave That your slain friends may fun'ral rites receive."

Thus having said—the ambassadors, amaz'd, Stood mute a while, and on each other gaz'd. Drances, their chief, who harbour'd in his breast

Long hate to Turnus, as his foe profess'd,

Broke silence first, and to the godlike man With graceful action bowing, thus began:

66

Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name, But yet whose actions far transcend your fame! Would I your justice or your force express Thoughts can but equal; and all words are less.

Your answer we shall thankfully relate,
And favours granted to the Latian state.
If wish'd success our labours shall attend,
Think peace concluded, and the king your
friend:

Let Turnus leave the realm to your command;
And seek alliance in some other land:
Build you the city which your fates assign;
We shall be proud in the great work to join."
Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade,
The rest empower'd, that soon a truce is made.
Twelve days the term allow'd: and, during
those,

Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes,
Mix'd in the woods, for fun'ral piles prepare
To fell the timber, and forget the war.
Loud axes through the groaning groves re-
sound :

Oak, mountain-ash, and poplar, spread the ground;

Firs fall from high; and some the trunks receive
In loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.
And now the fatal news by Fame is blown
Through the short circuit of th' Arcadian town,
Of Pallas slain-by Fame, which just before
His triumphs on distended pinions bore.
Rushing from out the gate, the people stand,
Each with a fun'ral flambeau in his hand.
Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze:
The fields are lighten'd with a fiery blaze,
That casts a sullen splendour on their friends-
The marching troop which their dead prince
attends.

Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry :
The matrons from the walls with shrieks reply;
And their mix'd mourning rends the vaulted
sky.

The town is fill'd with tumult and with tears,
Till the loud clamours reach Evander's ears:
Forgetful of his state, he runs along,
With a disorder'd pace, and cleaves the throng;
Falls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies,
With silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes.
Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks
A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks :
"O Pallas! thou hast fail'd thy plighted word!
To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword.
I warn'd thee, but in vain! for well I knew
What perils youthful ardour would pursue-
That boiling blood would carry thee too far,
Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!

O curst essay of arms! disastrous doom!
Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!
Hard elements of inauspicious war!
Vain vows to heav'n, and unavailing care!
Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,
Whose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled-
Precious of ills, and leaving me behind,
To drink the dregs of life, by fate assign'd.
Beyond the goal of nature have gone :
My Pallas late set out, but reach'd too soon.
If, for my league against th' Ausonian state,
Amidst their weapons I had found my fate,
(Deserv'd from them,) then I had been return'd
A breathless victor, and my son had mourn'd.
Yet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid,
Nor grudge th' alliance I so gladly made.
'T was not his fault my Pallas fell so young,
But my own crime for having liv'd too long.
Yet, since the gods had destin'd him to die,
At least, he led the way to victory:
First for his friends he won the fatal shore,
And sent whole herds of slaughter'd foes be-
fore-

A death too great, too glorious to deplore.
Nor will I add new honours to thy grave
Content with those the Trojan hero gave-
That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends de-
sign'd,

In which the Tuscan chiefs and army join❜d. Great spoils and trophies, gain'd by thee they bear:

Then let thy own achievements be thy share.
E'en thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood,
Whose mighty trunk had better grac'd the wood,
If Pallas had arriv'd, with equal length
Of years, to match thy bulk with equal strength.
But why, unhappy man! dost thou detain
These troops, to view the tears thou shedd'st in
vain?

Go, friends! this message to your lord relate:
Tell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate,
And, after Pallas' death, live lingering on,
'T is to behold his vengeance for my son.
I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head
Is owing to the living and the dead.
My son and I expect it from his hand;
'Tis all that he can give, or we demand.
Joy is no more: but I would gladly go,
To greet my Pallas with such news below."
The morn had now dispell'd the shades of
night,

Restoring toils, when she restor❜d the light.
The Trojan king, and Tuscan chief command
To raise the piles along the winding strand.
Their friends convey the dead to fun❜ral fires;
Black smould'ring smoke from the green wood
expires;
[retires.
The light of heaven is chok'd, and the new day

Then thrice around the kindled piles they go, (For ancient custom had ordain'd it so,) Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led; And thrice with loud laments they hail the dead. Tears trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground;

sound.

Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
The spoils in battle taken from the foe-
Helms, bits emboss'd, and swords of shining
steel:

One casts a target, one a chariot-wheel:
Some to their fellows their own arms restore→→→
The falchions which in luckless fight they bore,
Their bucklers pierc'd, their darts bestow'd in
vain,

And shiver'd lances gather'd from the plain.
Whole herds of offer'd bulls, about the fire,
And bristled boars, and woolly sheep, expire.
Around the piles a careful troop attends,
To watch the wasting flames, and weep their
burning friends-

Ling'ring along the shore, till dewy night
New decks the face of heav'n with starry light.

The conquer'd Latians, with like pious care,
Piles without number for their dead prepare.
Part, in the places where they fell, are laid;
And part are to the neighb'ring fields convey'd.
The corpse of kings, and captains of renown,
Borne off in state, are bury'd in the town;.
The rest unhonour'd, and without a name,
Are cast a common heap to feed the flame.
Trojans and Latians vie with like desires
To make the field of battle shine with fires;
And the promiscuous blaze to heav'n aspires.
Now had the morning thrice renew'd the
light,

And thrice dispell'd the shadows of the night,
When those who round the wasted fires remain,
Perform the last sad office to the slain.
They rake the yet warm ashes from below;
These, and the bones unburn'd, in earth be-

stow:

These relics with their country rites they grace,
And raise a mount of turf to mark the place.
But, in the palace of the king, appears
A scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears.
Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common

moans

Orphans their sires, and sires lament their sons.
All in that universal sorrow share,
And curse the cause of this unhappy war-
A broken league, a bride unjustly sought,
A crown usurp'd, with which their blood is
bought.

[name These are the crimes, with which they load the Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim:

His cause and credit in the Latian court.
His former acts secure his present fame ;
And the queen shades him with her mighty

name.

While thus their factious minds with fury

burn,

The legates from th' Ætolian prince return:
Sad news they bring, that, after all the cost
And care employ'd, their embassy is lost;
That Diomede refus'd his aid in war,
Unmov'd with presents, and as deaf to pray'r.
Some new alliance must elsewhere be sought,
Or peace
with Troy on hard conditions bought.
Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late,
A foreign son is pointed out by fate;
And, till Æneas shall Lavinia wed,
The wrath of heav'n is hov'ring o'er his head.
The gods, he saw, espous'd the juster side,
When late their titles in the field were tried:
Witness the fresh laments, and fun'ral tears
undried.

Thus full of anxious thought, he summons all
The Latian senate to the council hall.
The princes come, commanded by their head,
And crowd the paths that to the palace lead.
Supreme in pow'r, and reverenc'd for his

Call'd into part of what is ours: and there,
On terms agreed, the common country share.
There let them build, and settle, if they please;
Unless they choose once more to cross the seas,
In search of seats remote from Italy,
And from unwelcome inmates set us free.
Then twice ten galleys let us build with speed,
Or twice as many more, if more they need.
Materials are at hand: a well grown wood
Runs equal with the margin of the flood:
Let them the number and the form assign;
The care and cost of all the stores be mine.
To treat the peace, a hundred senators
Shall be commission'd hence with ample pow'rs,
With olive crown'd: the presents they shall
bear,

A purple robe, a royal iv'ry chair,

And all the marks of sway that Latian monarchs

wear,

And sums of gold. Among yourselves debate This great affair, and save the sinking state." Then Drances took the word, who grudg'd, long since,

The rising glories of the Daunian prince,
Factious and rich, bold at the council board,
But cautious in the field, he shunn'd the sword-
A close caballer, and tongue-valiant lord.
Noble his mother was, and near the throne:
But, what his father's parentage, unknown.
He
rose, and took th' advantage of the times,
To load young Turnus with invidious crimes.
"Such truths, O king," said he, " your words
contain,

As strike the sense, and all replies are vain;
Nor are your loyal subjects now to seek
What common needs require; but fear to speak.
Let him give leave of speech, that haughty man,
Whose pride this inauspicious war began;
For whose ambition, (let me dare to say,
Fear set apart, though death is in my way,)
The plains of Latium run with blood around;
So many valiant heroes bite the ground;
Dejected grief in ev'ry face appears;
A town in mourning, and a land in tears;
While he, th' undoubted author of our harms,
The man who menaces the gods with arms,
Yet, after all his boasts, forsook the fight,
And sought his safety in ignoble flight.
Now, best of kings, since you propose to send
Such bounteous presents to your Trojan friend;
Add yet a greater, at our joint request,
One which he values more than all the rest:
Give him the fair Lavinia for his bride :
With that alliance let the league be tied,
And for the bleeding land a lasting peace pro-

vide.

Let insolence no longer awe the throne; But, with a father's right bestow your own.

O cursed cause of all our ills! must we
Wage wars unjust, and fall in fight for thee?
What right hast thou to rule the Latian state,
And send us out to meet our certain fate?
'Tis a destructive war: from Turnus' hand
Our peace and public safety we demand.
Let the fair bride to the brave chief remain ;
If not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain.
Turnus, I know you think me not your friend,
Nor will I much with your belief contend:
I beg your greatness not to give the law
In other realms, but, beaten, to withdraw.
Pity your own, or pity our estate;
Nor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate.
Your int'rest is, the war should never cease;
But we have felt enough, to wish the peace-
A land exhausted to the last remains,
Depopulated towns, and driven plains.
Yet, if desire of fame, and thirst of pow'r,
A beauteous princess, with a crown in dow'r,
So fire your mind, in arms assert your right,
And meet your foe, who dares you to the fight.
Mankind, it seems, are made for you alone,
We, but the slaves who mount you to the
throne-

A base ignoble crowd, without a name,
Unwept, unworthy of the fun'ral flame,
By duty bound to forfeit each his life,
That Turnus may possess a royal wife!
Permit not, mighty man, so mean a crew
Should share such triumphs, and detain from you
The post of honour, your undoubted due.
Rather alone your matchless force employ,
To merit what alone you must enjoy."

These words, so full of malice, mix'd with art, Inflam'd with rage the youthful hero's heart. Then groaning from the bottom of his breast, He heav'd for wind, and thus his wrath express'd:

"You, Drances, never want a stream of words,
Then, when the public need requires our swords,
First, in the council-hall, to steer the state,
And ever foremost in a tongue debate,
While our strong walls secure us from the foe,
Ere yet with blood our ditches overflow;
But let the potent orator declaim,

And with the brand of coward blot my name;
Free leave is giv'n him, when his fatal hand
Has cover'd with more corpse the sanguine
strand,

And high as mine his tow'ring trophies stand.
If any doubt remains who dares the most,
Let us decide it at the Trojan's cost,