THE ARGUMENT.

Eneis erects a trophy of the fpoils of Mezentius; grants a truce for burying the dead; and fends home the body of Pallas with great folemnity. Latius calls a council to propofe offers of peace to neas, which occafions great animofity betwixt Turnus and Drances in the mean time there is a fharp engagement of the horse; wherein Camilla fignalizes her- ` felf; is killed and the Latine troops are intirely defeated.

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CARCE had the rofy morning rais'd her head Above the waves, and left her watery bed; The pious chief whom double cares attend For his unbury'd foldiers, and his friend: Yet first to heaven perform'd a victor's vow : He bar'd an ancient oak of all her boughs: Then on a rifing ground the trunk he plac'd ; Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac'd.

VOL. VII.

B

The

The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked fhag in triumph borne,
Was hung on high; and glitter'd from afar :
A trophy facred to the god of war.
Above his arms, fix'd on the leafiless wood,
Appear'd his plumy creft, befmear'd with blood;
His brazen buckler on the left was feen;
Truncheons of shiver'd lances hung between :
And on the right was plac'd his corflet, bor'd;
And to the neck was ty'd his unavailing fword.
A crowd of chiefs inclofe the godlike man:
Who thus, confpicuous in the midst, began:

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Our toils, my friends, are crown'd with fure fuccefs: The greater part perform'd, atchieve the lefs. Now follow chearful to the trembling town; Prefs but an entrance, and presume it won. Fear is no more: for fierce Mezentius lics, As the first fruits of war, a facrifice. Turnus fhall stand extended on the pain; And in this omen is already flain. Prepar'd in arms, purfue your happy chance: That none unwarn'd, may plead his ignorance: And I, at heaven's appointed hour, may find Your walike enfigns waving in the wind. Mean time the rites and funeral pomps prepare, Due to your dead companions of the war: The laft refpect the living can bestow,

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To fhield their shadows from contempt below.
That conquer'd earth be theirs for which they fought;
And which for us with their own blood they bought.

But

But first the corpfe of our unhappy friend,
To the fad city of Evander fend:
Who not inglorious in his age's bloom
Was hurry'd hence by too severe a doom.

way,

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Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his Where, now in death, lamented Pallas lay : Acœtes watch'd the corpse; whose youth deserv'd 45 The father's truft, and now the fon he ferv'd With equal faith, but lefs aufpicious care: Th' attendants of the flain 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 breafts, 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 bofom bore, And the fair flesh diftain'd with purple gore: First, melting into tears, the pious man Deplor'd fo fad a fight, then thus began: Unhappy youth! when fortune gave the rest Of my full wishes, the refus'd the best! She came; but brought not thee along, to blefs My longing eyes, and share in my fuccefs: She grudg'd thy fafe return, the triumphs due To profperous valour, in the public view. Not thus I promis'd, when my father lent Thy needlefs fuccour with a fad confent; Embrac'd me parting for th' Etrurian land, And fent ine to poffefs a large command.

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He warn'd, and from his own experience told,
Our foes were warlike, disciplin'd, and bold :
And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,
Rich odours on his loaded altars burn;
While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare
To fend him back his portion of the war;
A bloody breathlefs 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 fon.
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, whofe death difgrac'd his ancestry;
Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev'd:
Thy Pallas no difhoneft wound receiv'd.

He dy'd no death to make thee wish, too late,
Thou hadst not liv'd to fee his fhameful fate.
But what a champion has th' Aufonian coaft,
And what a friend haft thou, Afcanius, loft!
Thus having mourn'd, he gave the word around,
To raife the breathlefs body from the ground;
And chofe a thousand horfe, 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;

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Then on their fhoulders the fad burden rear.

The body on this rural herfe is born,

Strew'd leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.

All