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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 aufpicious care: Th' attendants of the slain his forrow share. A troop of Trojans mix'd with these appear, And mourning matrons with dishevel'd 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 grisly wound Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore,

55 And the fair flesh distain'd with purple gore: First, melting into tears, the pious man Deplor'd so fad a fight, then thus began:

Unhappy youth! when fortune gave the rest 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 fafe return, the triumphs due To prosperous valour, in the public view. Not thus I promis'd, when thy father lent 65 Thy needless fuccour with a fad consent; Embrac'd me parting for th’ Etrurian land, And sent me to poffefs a large command.

He warn'd, and from his own experience told,
Oar 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 75
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.

And yet, unhappy Sire, thou shalt not fee
A fon, whose death difgrac'd his ancestry;
Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev'd:
Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv'd.
He dy'd no death to make thee wish, too late,
Thou had'It not liv'd to see his shameful fate.
But what a champion has th’ Ausonian coast,
And what a friend haft 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, 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 this rural herse is born,
Sirew'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,


unfed below,
No more to mother earth or the green stem shall owe.
Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost,
Of purple woven, and with gold emboss'd,
For ornament the Trojan hero brought,

105 Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought. One vest array'd the corpse, 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. Besides the spoils of foes in battle flain, When he descended on the Latian plain: Arms, trappings, horses, by the herse he led In long array (th' atchievements of the dead). Then, pinión'd with their hands behind, appear 15 Th' unhappy captives, marching in the rear: Appointed offerings in the victor's name, To sprinkle with their blood, the funeral fiame. Inferior trophies by the chiefs are born; Gauntlets and helms, their loaded hands adorn; 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; fupported by his friends : Pausing at every pace, in forrow 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.


The champion's chariot next is seen to roll,
Besmear'd with hostile blood, and honourably foul.
To close the pomp, Æthon, the steed of state,

Is led, the funerals of his lord to wait:
Stripp'd of his trappings, with a suhen pace
He walks, and the big tears run rolling down his face.
The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest, 135
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,

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 fufpends;
Peace with the manes of

Pallas dwell;

Hail holy relicks, and a last farewell!
He said no more, but inly though he mourn'd,
Reftraind 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 flain. 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; 155 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 suit, which was too just to be deny’d,
The hero grants, and farther thus reply'd: 160
O Latian princes, how fevere a fate
In causeless quarrels has involvid 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 sain, 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 unjuft; your king deny'd
My proffer'd friendship, and my promis'd bride. 170
Left me for Turnus; Turnus then should

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 him, to possess The royal virgin, and restore the peace. Bear this my message back; with ample leave That your slain friends


funeral-rites receive. 180 Thus having said, th' 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.

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



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