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'Tis no dishonour for the brave to die;
Nor came I here with hope of victory:
Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design.
As I had us'd my fortune, use thou thine.
My dying son contracted no such band:
The gift is hateful from his murderer's hand.
For this, this only favour let me sue,
If pity can to conquer'd foes be due,
Refuse it not: but let my body have
The last retreat of human kind, a grave.
Too well I know the insulting people's hate.
Protect me from their vengeance after fate:
This refuge for my poor remains provide;
And lay my much-lov'd Lausus by my side."
He said, and to the sword his throat applied.
The crimson stream distain'd his arms around,
And the disdainful soul came rushing through
the wound.

BOOK XI.

ARGUMENT.

Eneas erects a trophy of the spoils of Mezentius, grants a truce for burying the dead, and sends home the body of Pallas with great solemnity. Latinus calls a council, to propose offers of peace to Eneas; which occasions great animosity be twixt Turnus and Drances. In the mean time there is a sharp engagement of the horse; wherein Camilla signalizes herself, is killed, and the Latine troops are entirely defeated.

SCARCE had the rosy morning rais'd her head
Above the waves, and left her wat❜ry bed:
The pious chief, whom double cares attend,
For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to heav'n perform'd a victor's vows:
He bar'd an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac'd,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac'd.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne,
Was hung on high, and glitter'd from afar,
A trophy sacred to the god of war.
Above his arms, fix'd on the leafless wood,
Appear'd his plumy crest, besmear'd with blood.
His brazen buckler on the left was seen:
Truncheons of shiver'd lances hung between;
And on the right was plac'd his corslet, bor'd;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs enclose the godlike man,
Who, thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:
"Our toils, my friends, are crown'd with sure

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As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,
And, in this omen, is already slain.
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 warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
Meantime the rites and fun'ral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war-
The last respect the living can bestow,
To shield their shadows from contempt below.
That conquer'd earth be theirs, for which they
[bought.
And which for us with their own blood they
But first the corpse of our unhappy friend
To the sad city of Evander send,
Who, not inglorious in his age's bloom,
Was hurried hence by too severe a doom."
Thus, weeping, while he spoke, he took his
way,

fought,

Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay. Accetes watch'd the corpse, whose youth des serv'd

The father's trust; and now the son he serv'd
With equal faith, but less auspicious care:
Th' attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
A troop of Trojans mix'd with these appear,
And mourning matrons with dishevell'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
And the fair flesh distain'd with purple gore;
First, melting into tears, the pious man
Deplor'd so sad a sight, then thus began:
"Unhappy youth! when fortune gave the rest
Of my full wishes, she refus'd the best!
She came; but brought not thee along, to bless
My longing eyes, and share in my success:
She grudg'd thy safe return, the triumphs due
To prosp'rous valour, in the public view.
Not thus I promis'd, when thy father lent
Thy needless succour with a sad consent;
Embrac'd me, parting for th' Etrurian land,
And sent me to possess a large command.
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 send him back his portion of the war,
A bloody breathless body, which can owe
No farther debt, but to the pow'rs below.
The wretched father, ere his race is run,
Shall view the fun'ral 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 see
A son, whose death disgrac'd his ancestry:
Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev'd:
Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv'd:
He died no death to make thee wish, too late,
Thou hadst not liv'd to see his shameful fate.
But what a champion has th' Ausonian coast,
And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!"
Thus having mourn'd, he gave the word
around

To raise the breathless body from the ground;
And chose a thousand horse, the flow'r 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 his rural hearse is borne:
Strew'd leaves and fun'ral greens the bier adorn.
All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow'r,
New cropt by virgin hands, to dress the bow'r:
Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below, [shall owe.
No more to mother-earth or the green stem
Then two fair vests, of wond'rous work and cost,
Of purple woven, and with gold emboss'd,
For ornament the Trojan hero brought,
Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
One vest array'd the corpse; and one they
spread

O'er his clos'd eyes, and wrapt 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 slain,
When he descended on the Latian plain-
Arms, trappings, horses-by the hearse are led
In long array-th' achievements of the dead.
Then pinion'd with their hands behind, appear
Th' unhappy captives, marching in the rear,
Appointed off'rings in the victor's name,
To sprinkle with their blood the fun'ral flame.
Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne:
Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn;
And fair inscriptions fix'd, and titles read
Of Latian leaders conquer'd by the dead.
Acœtes on his pupil's corpse attends,
With feeble steps, supported by his friends.
Pausing at every pace, in sorrow drown'd,
Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground;
Where grov'ling 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, Ethon, the steed of state,
Is led, the fun'rals of his lord to wait.
Stripp'd of his trappings, with a sullen pace
He walks; and the big tears run rolling dowr
his face.

The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest, Are borne behind: the victor seiz'd the rest The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound:

The pikes and lances trail along the ground.
Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse
To Palantean tow'rs 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 at
tends,

Diverts our present woes, at least suspends.
Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell!
Hail, holy relics! and a last farewell!"
He said no more, but, inly though he mourn'd,
Restrain'd his tears, and to the camp return'd.
Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, de-

mand

A truce, with olive-branches in their hand:
Obtest his clemency, and from the plain
Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain.
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;
Nor could he war with bodies void of breath.
A king, they hop'd, would hear a king's re-
quest,

Whose son he once was call'd, and once his guest.

Their suit, which was too just to be denied, The hero grants, and farther thus replied: "O Latian princes! how severe a fate In causeless quarrels has involv'd your state, And arm'd against an unoffending man, Who sought your friendship ere the war began; You beg a truce, which I would gladly give, Not only for the slain, but those who live. I came not hither but by heav'n's command, And sent by fate to share the Latian land. Nor wage I wars unjust: your king denied My proffer'd friendship and my promis'd bride; Left me for Turnus. Turnus then should try 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; 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 may fun'ral rites re ceive."

Thus having said—the 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!
Would I your justice or your force express
Thoughts can but equal; and all words are
less.

Your answer we shall thankfully relate,
And favours granted to the Latian state.
If wish'd success our labours shall attend,
Think peace concluded, and the king your
friend:

Let Turnus leave the realm to your command;
And seek alliance in some other land:
Build you the city which your fates assign;
We shall be proud in the great work to join."
Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade,
The rest empower'd, that soon a truce is made.
Twelve days the term allow'd: and, during
those,

Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes,
Mix'd in the woods, for fun'ral piles prepare
To fell the timber, and forget the war.
Loud axes through the groaning groves re-
sound :

Oak, mountain-ash, and poplar, spread the ground;

Firs fall from high; and some the trunks receive
In loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.
And now the fatal news by Fame is blown
Through the short circuit of th' Arcadian town,
Of Pallas slain-by Fame, which just before
His triumphs on distended pinions bore.
Rushing from out the gate, the people stand,
Each with a fun'ral flambeau in his hand.
Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze:
The fields are lighten'd with a fiery blaze,
That casts a sullen splendour on their friends
The marching troop which their dead prince
attends.

Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry:
The matrons from the walls with shrieks reply;
And their mix'd mourning rends the vaulted
sky.

The town is fill'd with tumult and with tears,
Till the loud clamours reach Evander's ears:
Forgetful of his state, he runs along,
With a disorder'd pace, and cleaves the throng;
Falls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies,
With silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes.
Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks
A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:
"O Pallas! thou hast fail'd thy plighted word!
To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword.
I warn'd thee, but in vain! for well I knew
What perils youthful ardour would pursue-
That boiling blood would carry thee too far,
Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!

O curst essay of arms! disastrous doom!
Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!
Hard elements of inauspicious war!
Vain vows to heav'n, and unavailing care!
Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,
Whose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled-
Precious of ills, and leaving me behind,
To drink the dregs of life, by fate assign'd.
Beyond the goal of nature I have gone :
My Pallas late set out, but reach'd too soon.
If, for my league against th' Ausonian state,
Amidst their weapons I had found my fate,
(Deserv'd from them,) then I had been return'd
A breathless victor, and my son had mourn'd.
Yet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid,
Nor grudge th' alliance I so gladly made.
'Twas not his fault my Pallas fell so young,
But my own crime for having liv'd too long.
Yet, since the gods had destin'd him to die,
At least, he led the way to victory:
First for his friends he won the fatal shore,
And sent whole herds of slaughter'd foes be-
fore-

A death too great, too glorious to deplore.
Nor will I add new honours to thy grave
Content with those the Trojan hero gave-
That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends de-
sign'd,

In which the Tuscan chiefs and army join'd. Great spoils and trophies, gain'd by thee they bear:

Then let thy own achievements be thy share.
E'en thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood,
Whose 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
These troops, to view the tears thou shedd'st 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 son.
I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head
Is owing to the living and the dead.
My son and I expect it from his hand;
"T is all that he can give, or we demand.
Joy is no more: but I would gladly go,
To greet my Pallas with such news below."

The morn had now dispell'd the shades of
night,

Restoring 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 fun❜ral fires;
Black smould'ring smoke from the green wood
expires;
[retires.
The light of heaven is chok'd, and the new day

Then thrice around the kindled piles they go, (For ancient custom had ordain'd it so,) Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led; And thrice with loud laments they hail the dead. Tears trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground;

"Let him, who lords it o'er th' Ausonian land,
Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand;
His is the gain: our lot is but to serve :
"T is just the sway he seeks he should deserve."
This Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite.
His foe expects, and dares him to the fight.

And drums and trumpets mix their mournful Nor Turnus wants a party, to support

sound.

Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
The spoils in battle taken from the foe-
Helms, bits emboss'd, and swords of shining
steel:

One casts a target, one a chariot-wheel:
Some to their fellows their own arms restore-
The falchions which in luckless fight they bore,
Their bucklers pierc'd, their darts bestow'd in
vain,

And shiver'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 friends-

Ling'ring along the shore, till dewy night
New decks the face of heav'n with starry light.

The conquer'd Latians, with like pious care,
Piles without number for their dead prepare.
Part, in the places where they fell, are laid;
And part are to the neighb'ring fields convey'd.
The corpse of kings, and captains of renown,
Borne off in state, are bury'd in the town;
The rest unhonour'd, and without a name,
Are cast a common heap to feed the flame.
Trojans and Latians vie with like desires
To make the field of battle shine with fires;
And the promiscuous blaze to heav'n aspires.
Now had the morning thrice renew'd the
light,

And thrice dispell'd the shadows of the night,
When those who round the wasted fires remain,
Perform the last sad office to the slain.
They rake the yet warm ashes from below;
These, and the bones unburn'd, in earth be-
stow:

These relics 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 scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears. Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common

moans

Orphans their sires, and sires lament their sons.
All in that universal sorrow share,
And curse the cause of this unhappy war-
A broken league, a bride unjustly sought,
A crown usurp'd, with which their blood is
bought.
[name
These are the crimes, with which they load the
Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim :

His cause and credit in the Latian court.
His former acts secure his present fame;
And the queen shades 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 cost
And care employ'd, their embassy is lost;
That Diomede refus'd his aid in war,
Unmov'd with presents, and as deaf to pray'r.
Some new alliance must elsewhere be sought,
Or peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.
Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late,

A foreign son is pointed out by fate;
And, till Æneas shall Lavinia wed,
The wrath of heav'n is hov'ring o'er his head.
The gods, he saw, espous'd the juster side,
When late their titles in the field were tried:
Witness the fresh laments, and fun'ral tears
> undried.

Thus full of anxious thought, he summons all
The Latian senate to the council hall.
The princes come, commanded by their head,
And crowd the paths that to the palace lead.
Supreme in pow'r, and reverenc'd for his

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Made this return: Ausonian race, of old
Renown'd for peace, and for an age of gold,
What madness has your alter'd minds possess'd,
To change for war hereditary rest,
Solicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword-
A needless ill your ancestors abhorr'd?
We-for myself I speak, and all the name
Of Grecians, who to Troy's destruction came-
(Omitting those who were in battle slain,
Or borne by rolling Simois to the main ;)
Not one but suffer'd, and too dearly bought
The prize of honour which in arms he sought.
Some doom'd to death, and some in exile driv'n,
Outcasts, abandon'd by the care of heav'n-
So worn, so wretched, so despis'd a crew,
As e'en old Priam might with pity view,
Witness the vessels by Minerva toss'd
In storm-the vengeful Capharean coast-
Th' Euboean rocks-the prince, whose brother
led

Our armies to revenge his injur'd bed,
In Egypt lost. Ulysses, with his men,
Have seen Charybdis, and the Cyclops' den.
Why should I name Idomeneus, in vain
Restor❜d to sceptres, and expell'd again?
Or young Achilles, by his rival slain?
E'en he, the king of men, the foremost name
Of all the Greeks, and most renown'd by fame,
The proud revenger of another's wife,
Yet by his own adult'ress lost his life-
Fell at his threshold ; and the spoils of Troy
The foul polluters of his bed enjoy.
The gods have envied me the sweets of life,
My much-lov'd country and my more lov'd

wife;

Banish'd from both, I mourn; while in the sky,
Transform'd to birds, my lost companions fly:
Hovering about the coasts, they make their

moan,

And cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own.
What squalid spectres, in the dead of night,
Break my short sleep, and skim before my
sight!

I might have promis'd to myself those harms,
Mad as I was, when I with mortal arms,
Presum'd against immortal pow'rs to move,
And violate with wounds the queen of love.
Such arms this hand shall never more employ;
No hate remains with me to ruin'd Troy.
I war not with its dust; nor am I glad
To think of past events, or good or bad.
Your presents I return: whate'er you bring
To buy my friendship, send the Trojan king.
We met in fight: I know him to my cost:
With what a whirling force his lance he toss'd!
Heav'ns! what a spring was in his arm, to
[blow!

throw!

Had Troy produc'd two more his match in
might
[fight:

They would have chang'd the fortune of the
The invasion of the Greeks had been return'd
Our empires wasted and our cities burn'd.
The long defence the Trojan people made,
The war protracted, and the siege delay'd,
Were due to Hector's and this hero's hand:
Both brave alike, and equal in command;
Eneas, not inferior in the field,

In pious rev'rence to the gods excell'd.
Make peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care
Th' impending dangers of a fatal war.'
He said no more; but with this cold excuse,
Refus'd th' alliance, and advis'd a truce."

Thus Venulus concluded his report.
A jarring murmur fill'd the factious court:
As when a torrent rolls with rapid force,
And dashes o'er the stones that stop their

course,

The flood constrain'd within a scanty space,
Roars horrible along th' uneasy race;
White foam in gath'ring eddies floats around;
The rocky shores rebellow to the sound.

The murmur ceas'd: then from his lofty

throne

The king invok'd the gods, and thus begun :
"I wish, ye Latians, what we now debate
Had been resolv'd before it was too late.
Much better had it been for you and me,
Unforc'd to this our last necessity,

To have been earlier wise than now to call
A council, when the foe surrounds the wall.
O citizens, we wage unequal war,
With men, not only heav'n's peculiar care,
But heav'n's own race-unconquer'd in the
field,

Or conquer'd, yet unknowing how to yield.
What hopes you had in Diomede lay down:
Our hopes must centre on ourselves alone.
Yet those how feeble, and indeed how vain,
You see too well; nor need my words explain.
Vanquish'd without resource-laid flat by
fate-

Factions within, a foe without the gate!
Not but I grant that all perform'd their parts
With manly force, and with undaunted hearts:
With our united strength the war we wag'd;
With equal numbers, equal arms, engag'd:
You see th' event.-Now hear what I propose,
To save our friends, and satisfy our foes.
A tract of land the Latians have possess'd
Along the Tyber, stretching to the west,
Which now Rutulians and Auruncans till;
And their mix'd cattle graze the fruitful hill.
Those mountains fill'd with firs, that lower
land,

How high he held his shield, and rose at ev'ry If you consent, the Trojans shall command,

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