Up from the sea now soared the dawning day:Aeneas, though his sorrow bids him hasteto burial of the slain, and his sad soulis clouded with the sight of death, fulfils,for reward to his gods, a conqueror's vow,at morning's earliest beam. A mighty oakshorn of its limbs he sets upon a hilland clothes it o'er with glittering arms, the spoilof King Mezentius, and a trophy proudto thee, great lord of war. The hero's plumesbedewed with blood are there, and splintered spears;there hangs the corselet, by the thrusting steeltwelve times gored through; upon the left he bindsthe brazen shield, and from the neck suspendsthe ivory-hilted sword. Aeneas thus,as crowding close his train of captains throng,addressed his followers: “Ye warriors mine,our largest work is done. Bid fear begoneof what is left to do. Behold the spoils!Yon haughty King was firstfruits of our war.See this Mezentius my hands have made!Now to the Latin town and King we go.Arm you in soul! With heart of perfect hopeprepare the war! So when the gods give signto open battle and lead forth our braveout of this stronghold, no bewilderment,nor tarrying, nor fearful, faltering mindshall slack our march. Meanwhile in earth we layour comrades fallen; for no honor elsein Acheron have they. Go forth,” said he,“bring gifts of honor and of last farewellto those high hearts by shedding of whose bloodour country lives. To sad Evander's townbear Pallas first; who, though he did not failof virtue's crown, was seized by doom unblest,and to the bitterness of death consigned.”
Weeping he spoke, and slowly backward drewto the tent-door, where by the breathless clayof Pallas stood Acoetes, aged man,once bearer of Evander's arms, but nowunder less happy omens set to guardhis darling child. Around him is a throngof slaves, with all the Trojan multitude,and Ilian women, who the wonted waylet sorrow's tresses loosely flow. When nowAeneas to the lofty doors drew near,all these from smitten bosoms raised to heavena mighty moaning, till the King's abodewas loud with anguish. There Aeneas viewedthe pillowed head of Pallas cold and pale,the smooth young breast that bore the gaping woundof that Ausonian spear, and weeping said:“Did Fortune's envy, smiling though she came,refuse me, hapless boy, that thou shouldst seemy throne established, and victorious ridebeside me to thy father's house? Not thismy parting promise to thy King and sire,Evander, when with friendly, fond embraceto win imperial power he bade me go;yet warned me anxiously I must resistbold warriors and a stubborn breed of foes.And haply even now he cheats his heartwith expectation vain, and offers vows,heaping with gifts the altars of his gods.But we with unavailing honors bringthis lifeless youth, who owes the gods of heavenno more of gift and vow. O ill-starred King!Soon shalt thou see thy son's unpitying doom!What a home-coming! This is glory's dayso Iong awaited; this the solemn pledgeI proudly gave. But fond Evander's eyeswill find no shameful wounding on the slain,nor for a son in coward safety keptwilt thou, the sire, crave death. But woe is me!How strong a bulwark in Ausonia falls!What loss is thine, Iulus!” Thus lamenting,he bids them lift the body to the bier,and sends a thousand heroes from his hostto render the last tributes, and to sharefather's tears:—poor solace and too smallfor grief so great, but due that mournful sire.Some busy them to build of osiers finethe simple litter, twining sapling oakswith evergreen, till o'er death's Iofty bedthe branching shade extends. Upon it lay,as if on shepherd's couch, the youthful dead,like fairest flower by virgin fingers culled,frail violet or hyacinth forlorn,of color still undimmed and leaf unmarred;but from the breast of mother-earth no moreits life doth feed. Then good Aeneas broughttwo broidered robes of scarlet and fine gold,which with the gladsome labor of her handsSidonian Dido wrought him long ago,the thin-spun gold inweaving. One of thesethe sad prince o'er the youthful body threwfor parting gift; and with the other veiledthose tresses from the fire; he heaped on highLaurentum's spoils of war, and bade to bringmuch tribute forth: horses and arms he gave,seized from the fallen enemy; with handsfettered behind them filed a captive traindoomed to appease the shades, and with the flamesto mix their flowing blood. He bade his chiefsset up the trunks of trees and clothe them wellwith captured arms, inscribing on each onesome foeman's name. Then came Acoetes forth,a wretched, worn old man, who beat his breastwith tight-clenched hands, and tore his wrinkled facewith ruthless fingers; oft he cast him downfull length along the ground. Then lead they forththe blood-stained Rutule chariots of war;Aethon, the war-horse, of his harness bare,walks mournful by; big teardrops wet his cheek.Some bear the lance and helm; for all the restvictorious Turnus seized. Then filed alonga mournful Teucrian cohort; next the hostEtrurian and the men of Arcadywith trailing arms reversed. Aeneas now,when the long company had passed him by,spoke thus and groaned aloud: “Ourselves from henceare summoned by the same dread doom of warto other tears. Farewell forevermore!Heroic Pallas! be forever blest!I bid thee hail, farewell!” In silence thenback to the stronghold's Iofty walls he moved.
Now envoys from the Latin citadelcame olive-crowned, to plead for clemency:would he not yield those bodies of the deadsword-scattered o'er the plain, and let them liebeneath an earth-built tomb? Who wages warupon the vanquished, the unbreathing slain?To people once his hosts and kindred called,would he not mercy show? To such a prayer,deemed not unworthy, good Aeneas gavethe boon, and this benignant answer made:“Ye Latins, what misfortune undeservedhas snared you in so vast a war, that nowyou shun our friendship? Have you here imploredpeace for your dead, by chance of battle fallen?Pain would I grant it for the living too.I sailed not hither save by Heaven's decree,which called me to this land. I wage no warwith you, the people; 't was your King refusedour proffered bond of peace, and gave his causeto Turnus' arms. More meet and just it werehad Turnus met this death that makes you mourn.If he would end our quarrel sword in hand,thrusting us Teucrians forth, 't was honor's wayto cross his blade with mine; that man to whomthe gods, or his own valor, had decreedthe longer life, had lived. But now depart!Beneath your lost friends light the funeral fires!”So spoke Aeneas; and with wonder muteall stood at gaze, each turning to beholdhis neighbor's face. Then Drances, full of years,and ever armed with spite and slanderous wordagainst young Turnus, made this answering plea:“O prince of mighty name, whose feats of armsare even mightier! Trojan hero, howshall my poor praise exalt thee to the skies?Is it thy rectitude or strenuous warmost bids me wonder? We will bear thy wordright gladly to the city of our sires;and there, if Fortune favor it, contrivea compact with the Latin King. Henceforthlet Turnus find his own allies! Ourselveswill much rejoice to see thy destined walls,and our own shoulders will be proud to bearthe stone for building Troy.” Such speech he made,and all the common voice consented loud.So twelve days' truce they swore, and safe from harmLatins and Teucrians unmolested rovedtogether o'er the wooded hills. Now rangloud steel on ash-tree bole; enormous pines,once thrusting starward, to the earth they threw;and with industrious wedge asunder clovestout oak and odorous cedar, piling highharvest of ash-trees on the creaking wain. Now Rumor, herald of prodigious woe,to King Evander hied, Evander's houseand city filling, where, but late, her wordhad told in Latium Pallas' victory.th' Arcadians thronging to the city-gatesbear funeral torches, the accustomed way;in lines of flame the long street flashes far,lighting the fields beyond. To meet them movesa Phrygian company, to join with theirsits lamentation loud. The Latin wives,soon as they saw them entering, arousedthe whole sad city with shrill songs of woe.No hand could stay Evander. Forth he flewinto the midmost tumult, and fell proneon his dead Pallas, on the resting bier;he clung to the pale corse with tears, with groans,till anguish for a space his lips unsealed:“Not this thy promise, Pallas, to thy sire,to walk not rashly in the war-god's way.I knew too well how honor's morning-star,and sweet, foretasted glory tempt and wooin a first battle. O first-fruit forlornof youth so fair! O prelude pitilessof war approaching! O my vows and prayers,which not one god would hear! My blessed wife,how happy was the death that spared thee notto taste this bitterness! But I, the while,by living longer lived to meet my doom,—a father sole-surviving. Would I myselfhad perished by the Rutule's cruel spear,the Trojan's cause espousing! This breath of lifehow gladly had I given! And O, that nowyon black solemnity were bearing homemyself, not Pallas, dead! Yet blame I not,O Teucrians, the hallowed pact we made,nor hospitable bond and clasp of hands.This doom ye bring me was writ long ago,for my old age. And though my child is fallenuntimely, I take comfort that he fellwhere thousands of the Volscians slaughtered lie,and into Latium led the Teucrian arms.What brighter glory could I crave in deathfor thee, my Pallas, than Aeneas brings,and Phrygian princes, and Etrurian lordswith all Etruria's legions? Lo, they bearyon glittering spoils of victims of thy sword!Thou, Turnus, too, wert now an effigyin giant armor clad, if but his yearsand strength full ripe had been fair match for thine!But now my woes detain the Trojan hostfrom battle. I beseech ye haste away,and bear this faithful message to your King:since I but linger out a life I loathe,without my Pallas, nothing but thy swordcan bid me live. Then let thy sword repayits debt to sire and son by Turnus slain!Such deed alone may with thy honor fit,and happier fortunes. But my life to mehas no joy left to pray for, save to bringmy son that solace in the shadowy land.” Meanwhile o'er sorrowing mortals the bright mornhad lifted her mild beam, renewing sothe burden of man's toil. Aeneas nowbuilt funeral pyres along the winding shore,King Tarchon at his side. Each thither broughtthe bodies of his kin, observing wellall ancient ritual. The fuming firesburned from beneath, till highest heaven was hidin blackest, overmantling cloud. Three timesthe warriors, sheathed in proud, resplendent steel,paced round the kindling pyres; and three timesfair companies of horsemen circled slow,with loud lamenting, round the doleful flame.The wail of warriors and the trumpets' blarethe very welkin rend. Cast on the flamesare spoils of slaughtered Latins,—helms and blades,bridles and chariot-wheels. Yet others bringgifts to the dead familiar, their own shieldsand unavailing spears. Around them slaingreat herds of kine give tribute unto death:swine, bristly-backed, from many a field are borne,and slaughtered sheep bleed o'er the sacred fire.So on the shore the wailing multitudebehold their comrades burning, and keep guardo'er the consuming pyres, nor turn awaytill cooling night re-shifts the globe of heaven,thick-strewn with numberless far-flaming stars.