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Would I your justice or your force express,
Thought can but equal; and all words are less:

Your answer we shall thankfully relate,
And favours granted to the Latian ftate:
If wish'd fuccess your labour shall attend,
Think peace concluded, and the king your friend:
Let Turnus leave the realm to your command: 195
And seek alliance in fome other land:
Build you the city which your Fates aflign:
We shall be proud in the great work to join.
Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade
The rest impower'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 funeral piles prepare;
To fell the timber, and forget the war.
Loud axes through the groaning groves resound: 205
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 Nain: by Fame, which just 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 ftare, distracted with amaze:

215 The fields are lightend with a fiery blaze, That cast a fullen splendor 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 shrieks 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: 225
Falls on the corpse, and groaning there he lies,
With filent grief, that speaks but at his eyes :
Short fighs and fobs succeed: till forrow breaks
A paffage, and at once weeps

and speaks.
O Pallas! thou haft fail'd thy plighted word! 230
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! 235
O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom,
Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!
Hard elements of inauspicious war,
Vain vows to heaven, and unavailing care!
Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed, 240
Whose holy soul the stroke of fortune Aed:
Præscious of ills, and leaving me behind,
To drink the dregs of life by fate aflign'd.
Beyond the goal of nature I have gone ;
My Pallas late set out, but reach'd too soon. 245
If, from my league against th’ Ausonian state,
Amid their weapons I had found my fate,



(Deserv'd from them) then I had been return'd
A breathless victor, and my fon had mourn'd.
Yet will not I my Trojan friend upbraid, 250
Nor grudge th' alliance I so gladly made.
"Twas not his fault my Pallas fell fo 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 before:
A death too great, too glorious to deplore.
Nor will I add new honours to thy grave;
Content with those the Trojan hero gave. 260
That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends design’d;
In which the Tuscan chiefs and army join'd :
Great spoils, and trophies gain’d by thee, they bear :
Then let thy own atchievements be thy share.
Ev’n thou, O Turnus, hadft a trophy stood, 265
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 shed'st in vain!
Go, friends, this message to your lord relate;

271 Tell him, that if I bear


bitter fate, And after Pallas' death, live lingering on, "Tis to behold his vengeance for my

fon. I stay for Turnus; whose devoted head

275 Is owing to the living and the dead:




My fon 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. 280

The morn had now dispell'd the shades of night;
Restoring toils, when she restord the light:
The Trojan king, and Tuscan chief, command
To raise the piles along the winding strand:
Their friends convey the dead to funeral fires ;
Black smouldring smoke from the green wood expires;
'The light of heaven is chok'd, and the new day retires.
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, 290
And thrice with loud laments they hail the dead.
Tears trickling down their breasts bedew the ground;
And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound.
Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
The spoils, in battle taken from the foe; 295
Helms, bitts emboss'd, and swords of shining steel,
One casts a target, one a chariot-wheel:
Some to their fellows their own arms restore:
The fauchions which in luckless fight they bore:
Their bucklers pierc'd, their darts bestow'd in vain,
And shiver's lances gather'd from the plain,

301 Whole herds of offer'd bulls about the fire, And briftled boars, and woolly sheep expire. Around the piles a careful troop attends, To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends.



Lingering along the shore, till dewy night 30 New decks the face of heaven 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; 310 And part are to the neighbouring fields convey'd. The corpse of kings, and captains of renown, Borne off in ftate, are bury'd in the town: The rest unhonour'd, and without a name, Are cast a common heap to feed the flame. 315 Trojans and Latians vie with like desires To make the field of battle shine with fires; And the promiscuous blaze to heaven aspires.

Now had the morning thrice renew'd the light, And thrice dispellid the fhadows of the night; 320 When thofe who round the wasted fires remain, Perform the last fad office to the slain: They rake the yet warm ashes, from below; These, and the bones unburn'd, in earth bestow: These relicks with their country rites they grace; And raise a mount of turf to mark the place.

326 But in the palace of the king, appears A scene more folemn, and a pomp

of tears. Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans : Orphans their fires, and fires lament their sons.

330 All in that universal sorrow share, And curse the cause of this unhappy war. A broken league, a bride unjustly fought, A crown usurp'd, which with their blood is bought!


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