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But first the corpse of our unhappy friend,
To the sad city of Evander send :

-40 Who not inglorious in his age’s bloom Was hurry'd hence by too severe a doom.

Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
Where, now in death, lamented Pallas lay :
Acætes watch'd the corpse ; whose youth deserv'd 45
The father's trust, and now the son he serv'd
With equal faith, but less auspicious care :
Th' attendants of the sain his forrow share.
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troop of Trojans mix?d with these appear,
And mourning matrons with difheveld, hair.
Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry;
All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.
They rear his drooping forehead from the ground;
But when Æneas view'd the grilly wound
Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore,

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And the fair fleih dittain'd with purple gore:
First, mehing into tears, the pious man
Deplor'd fo fad a sight, then thus began:

Unhappy youth! when fortune gave the reft Of my full wishes, she refus'd the best!

60 She came; but brought not thee along, to bless My longing eyes, and share in my success : She grudg'd thy safe return, the triumphs due To profperous valour, in the public view. Not thus I promis’d, when my father lent Thy needless fuccour with a fad confent; Embrac'd me parting for th' Etrurian land, And lent ine to postele a large.command.

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He warn`d, and from his own experience told,
Our foes were warlike, disciplin'd, and bold : 70
And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,
Rich odours on his loaded altars burn;
While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare
To send him back his portion of the war;
A bloody breathless body: which can owe
No farther debt, but to the powers

below.
The wretched father, ere his race is run,
Shall view the funeral honours of his son.
These are my triumphs of the Latian war;
Fruits of my plighted faith, and boasted care. 80
And yet, unhappy Sire, thou shalt not see
A son, whose death disgrac'd his ancestry;
Thou shalt not luh, old man, however griev'd:
Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv'd.
He dy'd no death to make thee wish, too late,
Thou hadít not liv'd to see his shameful fate.
But what a champion las th’ Ausonian coast,
And what a friend halt thou, Ascanius, loft!

Thus having mourn’d, he gave the word around, To raise the breathless body from the ground; 90 And chose a thousand horse, the flower of all His warlike troops, 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 ;

95 Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear. The body on this rural herse is born, Strew'd leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.

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All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flower,
New cropt by virgin hands, to dress the bower:
Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below,
No more to mother earth or the green stem shall owe.
Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and coft,
Of purple woven, and with gold embossid,
For ornament the Trojan hero brought,

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Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
One vest array'd the corple, and one they fpread
O'er his clos'd eyes, and wrap'd 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 Nain,
When he descended on the Latian plain :
Arms, trappings, horses, by the herfe he led
In long array (th' atchievements of the dead).
Then, pinion'd with their hands behind, appear 115
Th’ unhappy captives, marching in the rear :
Appointed offerings in the victor's name,
To sprinkle with their blood, the funeral flame.
Inferior trophies by the chiefs are born;
Gauntlets and helms, their loaded hands adorn; 120
And fair inscriptions fix'd, and titles read
Of Latian leaders conquer'd by the dead.

Acætes on his pupil's corpse attends, . With feeble steps ; supported by his friends : Pausing at every pace, in sorrow drown'd,

125 Betwixt their arms he finks upon the ground. Where groveling, while he lies in deep despair, He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.

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The champion's chariot next is seen to roll,
Besmeard with hostile blood, and honourably foul."
To close the pomp, Æthon, the steed of state, 1315
Is led, the funerals of his lord to wait.
Stripp'd of his tappings, with a sullen pace
He walks, and the big tears run rolling down his fáce.
The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest,

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Are borne behind; the victor seiz'd the rest.
The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely found,
The pikes and lances trail along the ground.
Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse,
To Pallantean towers direct their course,

140 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 attends, Diverts our present woes, at least suspends :. Peace with the manes of great

Pallas dwell; 145 Hail holy relicks, 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, demand A truce, with olive-branches in their hand..

150 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 request : Whose son he once was call:d, and once his guest.

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Their fuit, which was too just to be deny’d, The hero grants, and farther thus reply'd': 160 Latian princes, how severe a fate In causeless quarrels has involv'd your state ! And arm'd against an unoffending man, Who fought your friendship ere the war began! You beg a truce, which I would gladly give, 165 Not only for the llain, but those who live. I came not hither but by heaven's command, And sent by Fate to share the Latian land. Nor wage

I wars unjust; your king deny'd My proffer'd friendship, and my promis'd bride. 170 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;

175 And let him vanquish, whom his Fates befriend. This is the way, so tell lrim, to possess The royal virgin, and restore the peace. Bear this my message back; with ample leave That your Sain friends

may funeral-rites receive. Ilo Thus having faid, th' embassadors 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,

185 With graceful action bowing, thus began :

Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name, But yet whose actions far transcend your fame :

Would

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