Aeneid

so Iong awaited; this the solemn pledge

I proudly gave. But fond Evander's eyes

will find no shameful wounding on the slain,

nor for a son in coward safety kept

wilt 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 host

to render the last tributes, and to share

father's tears:—poor solace and too small

for grief so great, but due that mournful sire.

Some busy them to build of osiers fine

the simple litter, twining sapling oaks

with evergreen, till o'er death's Iofty bed

the 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 more

its life doth feed. Then good Aeneas brought

two broidered robes of scarlet and fine gold,

which with the gladsome labor of her hands

Sidonian Dido wrought him long ago,

the thin-spun gold inweaving. One of these

the sad prince o'er the youthful body threw

for parting gift; and with the other veiled

those tresses from the fire; he heaped on high

Laurentum's spoils of war, and bade to bring

much tribute forth: horses and arms he gave,

seized from the fallen enemy; with hands

fettered behind them filed a captive train

doomed to appease the shades, and with the flames

to mix their flowing blood. He bade his chiefs

set up the trunks of trees and clothe them well

with captured arms, inscribing on each one

some foeman's name. Then came Acoetes forth,

a wretched, worn old man, who beat his breast

with tight-clenched hands, and tore his wrinkled face

with ruthless fingers; oft he cast him down

full length along the ground. Then lead they forth

the 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 rest

victorious Turnus seized. Then filed along

a mournful Teucrian cohort; next the host

Etrurian and the men of Arcady

with trailing arms reversed. Aeneas now,

when the long company had passed him by,

spoke thus and groaned aloud: “Ourselves from hence

are summoned by the same dread doom of war

to other tears. Farewell forevermore!

Heroic Pallas! be forever blest!

I bid thee hail, farewell!” In silence then

back to the stronghold's Iofty walls he moved.

Now envoys from the Latin citadel

came olive-crowned, to plead for clemency:

would he not yield those bodies of the dead

sword-scattered o'er the plain, and let them lie

beneath an earth-built tomb? Who wages war

upon 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 gave

the boon, and this benignant answer made:

“Ye Latins, what misfortune undeserved

has snared you in so vast a war, that now

you shun our friendship? Have you here implored

peace 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 war

with you, the people; 't was your King refused

our proffered bond of peace, and gave his cause

to Turnus' arms. More meet and just it were

had 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 way

to cross his blade with mine; that man to whom

the gods, or his own valor, had decreed

the longer life, had lived. But now depart!

Beneath your lost friends light the funeral fires!”

So spoke Aeneas; and with wonder mute

all stood at gaze, each turning to behold

his neighbor's face. Then Drances, full of years,

and ever armed with spite and slanderous word

against young Turnus, made this answering plea:

“O prince of mighty name, whose feats of arms

are even mightier! Trojan hero, how

shall my poor praise exalt thee to the skies?

Is it thy rectitude or strenuous war

most bids me wonder? We will bear thy word

right gladly to the city of our sires;

and there, if Fortune favor it, contrive

a compact with the Latin King. Henceforth

let Turnus find his own allies! Ourselves

will much rejoice to see thy destined walls,

and our own shoulders will be proud to bear