Lingering along the fhore, till dewy night.
New decks the face of heaven with ftarry light.
The conquer'd Latians, with like pious care,
<Files 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,
Born off in state, 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 fhine with fires ;
And the promifcuous blaze to heaven afpires.

Now had the morning thrice renew'd the light,'
And thrice difpell'd the shadows of the night;
When those who round the wafted fires remain,
Perform the laft fad office to the flain:

They rake the yet warm afhes, from below;
Thefe, and the bones unburn'd, in earth bestow:
Thefe 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 caufe of this unhappy war.

A broken league, a bride unjustly sought,

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

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Thefe

Thefe are the crimes, with which they load the name Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim.

Let him, who lords it o'er th' Aufonian land,

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Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand :

His is the gain, our lot is but to ferve:

'Tis juft, the fway he feeks, he should deferve.
This Drances aggravates; and adds, with spight,
His foe expects, and dares him to the fight.
Nor Turnus wants a party, to fupport
His cause and credit, in the Latian court.
His former acts fecure his prefent fame;
And the queen fhades him with her mighty name.
While thus their factious minds with fury burn;
The legates from th' Ætolian prince return:
Sad news they bring, that, after all the coft,
And care employ'd, their embaffy is loft:
That Diomede refus'd his aid in war;
Unmov'd with prefents, and as deaf to prayer.
Some new alliance muft elsewhere be fought;
Or peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.
Latinus, funk in forrow, finds too late
A foreign fon is pointed out by fate:

And till Æneas fhall Lavinia wed,

The wrath of heaven is hovering o'er his head.
The gods, he faw, efpous'd the jußter fide,

When late their titles in the field were try'd: 360
Witness the frefh laments, and funeral tears undry'd.
Thus, full of anxious thought, he fummons all
The Latian fenate to the council-hall:

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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 leaflefs 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:

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 lies,
As the first fruits of war, a facrifice.
Turnus shall stand extended on the pain;
And in this omen is already flain.

Prepar'd in arms, pursue 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 :
be laft refpect the living can beftow,

Shield their fhadows from contempt below.

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t conquer'd earth be theirs for which they fought; which for us with their own blood they bought.

But

But firft the corpfe of our unhappy friend,
To the fad city of Evander fend:

Who not inglorious in his age's bloom

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Was hurry'd hence by too fevere a doom.

:

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Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way, Where, now in death, lamented Pallas laya Acœtes watch'd the corpfe; whofe youth deferv'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 fhare. A troop of Trojans mix'd with thefe 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: Firft, melting into tears, the pious man Deplor'd fo fad a fight, then thus began:

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Unhappy youth! when fortune gave the reft Of my full wishes, the refus'd the best!

She came; but brought not thee along, to bless
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 me to poffefs a large command.

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He warn'd, and from his own experience told,
Our foes were warlike, difciplin'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 fen.
Thefe are my triumphs of the Latian war;
Fruits of my plighted faith, and boafted care.
And yet, unhappy Sire, thou shalt not fee
A for, whofe 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 hadst not liv'd to fee his fhameful fate.
But what a champion has th' Aufonian coaft,
And what a friend haft thou, Ascanius, lost !

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Thus having mourn'd, he gave the word around,

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To raise the breathlefs body from the ground;
And chofe a thousand horfe, the flower of all
His warlike troops, wait the funeral:

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To bear him back, and fhare Evander's grief
(A well-becoming, but a weak relief).
Of oaken twigs they twift 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