All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flower,
New cropt by virgin hands, to drefs the bower:
Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below,
No more to mother earth or the green, ftem fhall owe.
Then two fair vefts, of wondrous work and coft,
Of purple woven, and with gold emboss'd,
For ornament the Trojan hero brought,
Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
One veft array'd the corpie, 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.
Befides, the fpoils of foes in battle flain,
When he defcended on the Latian plain :
Arms, trappings, horfes, by the herfe he led
In long array (th' atchievements of the dead).
Then, pinion'd with their hands behind, appear
Th' unhappy captives, marching in the rear:
Appointed offerings in the victor's name,
To fprinkle with their blood, the funeral flame.
Inferior trophies by the chiefs are born;
Gauntlets and helms, their loaded hands adorn; 120
And fair infcriptions fix'd, and titles read
Of Latian leaders conquer'd by the dead.
Acotes on his pupil's corpfe attends,
With feeble steps; fupported by his friends:
Paufing at every pace, in forrow drown'd,
Betwixt their arms he finks upon the ground.
Where groveling, while he lies in deep despair,
He beats his breaft, and rends his hoary hair.
B 3
The champion's chariot next is feen to roll,
Befmear'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 tappings, with a fullen pace
He walks, and the big tears run rolling down his face. The lance of Pallas, and the crimson creft,
Are borne behind; the victor seiz'd the rest.
The march begins: the trumpets hoarfely found,
The pikes and lances. trail along the ground.
Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse,
To Pallantean towers direct their courfe,
In long proceffion rank'd; the pious chief
Stopp'd in the rear, and gave a vent to grief.
The public care, he faid, which war attends,
Diverts our prefent woes, at least suspends:
Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell;
Hail holy relicks, and a laft farewell!
He faid no more, but inly though he mourn'd,
Reftrain'd his tears, and to the camp return'd.
Now fuppliants, from Laurentum fent, demand
A truce, with olive-branches in their hand.
Obteft his clemency, and from the plain
Beg leave to draw the bodies of their flain.
They plead, that none thofe common rites deny
To conquer'd foes, that in fair battle die.
All caufe of hate was ended in their death;
Nor could he war with bodies void of breath.
A king, they hop'd, would hear a king's request:
Whofe fon he once was call'd, and once his guest.
Their fuit, which was too just to be deny'd,
The hero grants, and farther thus reply'd :
O Latian princes, how fevere a fate
In caufelefs quarrels has involv'd 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,
Not only for the flain, but thofe who live.
I came not hither but by heaven's command,
And fent by Fate to share the Latian land.
Nor wage I wars unjust; your king deny'd
My proffer'd friendship, and my promis'd bride.
Left me for Turnus; Turnus then should try
His caufe in arms, to conquer or to die.
My right and his are in difpute: the flain
Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain.
In equal arms let us alone contend;
And let him vanquish, whom his Fates befriend.
This is the way, fo tell him, to poffefs
The royal virgin, and restore the peace.
Bear this my meffage back; with ample leave
That your flain friends may funeral-rites receive. 180
Thus having faid, th' embassadors amaz'd,
Stood mute a while, and on each other gaz`d :
Drances, their chief, who harbour'd in his breaft
Long hate to Turnus, as his foe profess'd,
Broke filence firft, and to the godlike man,
With graceful action bowing, thus began:
Aufpicious prince, in arms a mighty name,
But yet whofe actions far tranfcend your fame :
(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 fo 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 deftin'd him to die,
At least he led the way to victory:
First for his friends he won the fatal fhore,
And fent whole herds of flaughter'd foes before :
A death too great, too glorious to deplore.
Nor will I add new honours to thy grave;
Content with thofe the Trojan hero gave.
That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends defign'd;
In which the Tufcan chiefs and army join'd:
Great spoils, and trophies gain'd by thee, they bear:
Then let thy own atchievements be thy fhare.
Ev'n thou, O Turnus, hadft a trophy stood,
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 strength. "But why, unhappy man, dost thou detain
Thefe troops to view the tears thou fhed'ft 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 : -
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.
The morn had now dispell'd the shades of night;
Reftoring toils, when she restor'd the light:
The Trojan king, and Tuscan chief, command
To raise the piles along the winding strand : .
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 custom had ordain'd it fo).
Thrice horfe and foot about the fires are led,
And thrice with loud laments they hail the dead.
Tears trickling down their breasts bedew the ground;
And drums and trumpets mix their mournful found. -
Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
The fpoils, in battle taken from the foe;
Helms, bitts emboss'd, and fwords of fhining steel,
One cafts a target, one a chariot-wheel:
Some to their fellows their own arms restore :
The fauchions which in lucklefs fight they bore:
Their bucklers pierc'd, their darts beftow'd in vain,
And fhiver'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 wasting flames, and weep their burning
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