Alí pale he lies, and looks a lovely flower,
New cropt by virgin hands, to drefs the bower:
Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below,
No more to mother earth or the green stem shall owe.
Then two fair vefts, of wondrous work and cost,
Of purple woven, and with gold em.bofs'd,
For ornament the Trojan hero brought,
Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
One veft array'd the corpfe, and one they spread
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.
Befides, the fpoils of foes in battle flain,
When he defcended on the Latian plain a
Arms, trappings, horfes, by the herse he led
In long array (th' atchievements of the dead).
Then, pinion'd with their hands behind, appear
Th' unhappy captives, marching in the rear:
Appointed offerings in the victor's name,
To fprinkle with their blood, the funeral flame.
Inferior trophies by the chiefs are born;
Gauntlets and helms, their loaded hands adorn; 120
And fair infcriptions fix'd, and titles read
Of Latian leaders conquer'd by the dead.
Accetes on his pupil's corpfe attends,
With feeble steps; fupported by his friends:
Paufing at every pace, in forrow drown'd,
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.
The champion's chariot next is feen to roll,
Befmear'd with hoftile blood, and honourably foul..
To close the pomp, Ethon, the steed of ftate,
Is led, the funerals of his lord to wait.
Stripp'd of his tappings, with a fullen 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 feiz'd the reft.
The march begins: the trumpets hoarfely found,
The pikes and lances trail along the ground.
Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse,
To Pallantean towers direct their courfe,
In long proceffion 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 prefent woes, at least suspends:
Peace with the mancs of great Pallas dwell ;
Hail holy relicks, and a laft farewell!
He faid no more, but inly though he mourn'd,
Reftrain'd his tears, and to the camp return'd.
Now fuppliants, from Laurentum fent, demand
A truce, with olive-branches in their hand..
Obteft his clemency, and from the plain
Beg leave to draw the bodies of their flain.
They plead, that none those common rites deny
To conquer'd foes, that in fair battle die.
All caufe 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:
Whofe fon he once was call'd, and once his gueft.
Their fuit, which was too juft to be deny'd,
The hero grants, and farther thus reply'd :
O Latian princes, how fevere a fate
In caufelefs 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,
Not only for the flain, but those who live.
I came not hither but by heaven's command,
And fent by Fate to share the Latian land.
Nor wage, I wars unjuft; your king deny'd
My proffer'd friendship, and my promis'd bride.
Left me for Turnus; Turnus then fhould try
His caufe in arms, to conquer or to die.
My right and his are in difpute: the flain
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, fo tell him, to poffefs
The royal virgin, and reftore the peace.
Bear this my meffage back; with ample leave
That your flain friends may funeral-rites receive. 180
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 breaft
Long hate to Turnus, as his foe profefs'd,
Broke filence firft, and to the godlike man,
With graceful action bowing, thus began :
Aufpicious prince, in arms a mighty name,
But yet whofe actions far tranfcend your fame:
B 4
Would I your justice or your force express,
Thought can but equal; and all words are lefs: 190
Your answer we fhall thankfully relate,
And favours granted to the Latian state:
If wish'd fuccefs your labour shall attend,
Think peace concluded, and the king your friend:
Let Turnus leave the realm to your command:
And feek alliance in fome other land:
Build you the city which your Fates affign:
We fhall be proud in the great work to join.
Thus Drances; and his words fo well perfuade
The reft impower'd, that foon a truce is made.
Twelve days the term allow'd and during thofe,
Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes,
Mix'd in the woods, for funeral piles prepare,
To fell the timber, and forget the war.
Loud axes through the groaning groves refound: 205
Oak, mountain-ash, and poplar, spread the ground :
Firs fall from high: and fome the trunks receive,
In loaden wains, with wedges fome they cleave.
And now the fatal news by Fame is blown
Through the fhort circuit of th' Arcadian town,
Of Pallas flain: by Fame, which juft before
His triumphs on diftended pinions bore.
Rushing from out the gate, the people stand,
Each with a funeral flambeau in his hand :
Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze :
The fields are lighten'd with a fiery blaze,
That cast a sullen fplendor on their friends
(The marching troop which their dread prince attends)
Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry:
The matrons from the walls with fhrieks reply: 220
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 corpfe, and groaning there he lies,
With filent grief, that speaks but at his eyes:
Short fighs and fobs fucceed: till forrow breaks
A paffage, and at once he weeps and speaks.
O Pallas! thou haft fail'd thy plighted word! 230 To fight with caution, not to tempt the fword, I warn'd thee, but in vain; for well I knew What perils youthful ardour would purfue: 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 inaufpicious war,
Vain vows to heaven, and unavailing care!
Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,
Whofe holy foul the stroke of fortune fied:
Præfcious of ills, and leaving me behind,
To drink the dregs of life by fate affign'd.
Beyond the goal of nature I have gone;
My Pallas late fet out, but reach'd too foon.
If, from my league against th' Aufonian state,
Amid their weapons I had found my fate,
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