Would I your juftice or your force exprefs,

Thought can but equal; and all words are lefs:
Your answer we shall thankfully relate,

And favours granted to the Latian state:
If wifh'd fuccefs your labour fhall 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 shall be proud in the great work to join.
Thus Drances; and his words fo well perfuade
The rest impower'd, that foon 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.

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Loud axes through the groaning groves refound: 205
Oak, mountain-afh, and poplar, fpread 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 short circuit of th' Arcadian town,
Of Pallas flain: by Fame, which just before
His triumphs on diftended pinions bore.
Rufhing from out the gate, the people stand,
Each with a funeral flambeau in his hand:
Wildly they ftare, diftracted with amaze:
The fields are lighten'd with a fiery blaze,
That caft a fullen fplendor on their friends
(The marching troop which their dread prince attends).

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Both

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 ftate, 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 fucceed: till forrow breaks
A paffage, and at once he weeps and speaks.

O Pallas! thou haft fail'd thy plighted word!
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 pursue:
That boiling blood would carry thee too far;
Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!
O curft effay of arms, difaftrous 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,
Whofe holy foul the ftroke of fortune fled:
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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(Deferv'd

(Deferv'd from them) then I had been return'd
A breathless victor, and my son had mourn'd.
Yet will not I my Trojan friend upbraid,
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, fince the gods had destin'd him to die,
At least he led the way to victory:
Firft for his friends he won the fatal fhore,
And fent 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.
That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends defign'd;
In which the Tuscan chiefs and army join'd :

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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,

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Whofe mighty trunk had better grac'd the wood.

If Pallas had arriv'd, with equal length

Of years, to match thy bulk with equal ftrength.
But why, unhappy man, doft thou detain

These troops to view the tears thou shed'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,
'Tis to behold his vengeance for my fon.
I ftay for Turnus; whofe devoted head
Is owing to the living and the dead:

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My

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 fuch news below.

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284

The morn had now dispell'd the shades of night; Reftoring toils, when the reftor'd the light: The Trojan king, and Tufcan chief, command To raife the piles along the winding ftrand: Their friends convey the dead to funeral fires ; Black fmouldring fmoke 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 cuftom had ordain'd it fo). Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led, And thrice with loud laments they hail the dead. Tears trickling down their breafts bedew the ground; And drums and trumpets mix their mournful found. Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw

The spoils, in battle taken from the foe;

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Helms, bitts emboss'd, and fwords of shining steel, One cafts a target, one a chariot-wheel:

301

Some to their fellows their own arms reftore:
The fauchions 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 wafting flames, and weep their burning

friends.

Lingering

Lingering along the fhore, till dewy night
New decks the face of heaven with ftarry 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 neighbouring fields convey'd.
The corpfe of kings, and captains of renown,
Borne off in ftate, are bury'd in the town:
The reft unhonour'd, and without a name,
Are caft a common heap to feed the flame.
Trojans and Latians vie with like defires
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 difpell'd the fhadows of the night;
When those who round the wafted fires remain,
Perform the laft fad office to the flain:

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.

But in the palace of the king, appears

A fcene more folemn, and a pomp of tears.

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Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans:

Orphans their fires, and fires lament their fons.

All in that univerfal forrow fhare,

And curfe the cause of this unhappy war.
A broken league, a bride unjustly fought,

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A crown ufurp'd, which with their blood is bought!

Thefe