Aeneid

the stone for building Troy.” Such speech he made,

and all the common voice consented loud.

So twelve days' truce they swore, and safe from harm

Latins and Teucrians unmolested roved

together o'er the wooded hills. Now rang

loud steel on ash-tree bole; enormous pines,

once thrusting starward, to the earth they threw;

and with industrious wedge asunder clove

stout oak and odorous cedar, piling high

harvest of ash-trees on the creaking wain.

Now Rumor, herald of prodigious woe,

to King Evander hied, Evander's house

and city filling, where, but late, her word

had told in Latium Pallas' victory.

th' Arcadians thronging to the city-gates

bear funeral torches, the accustomed way;

in lines of flame the long street flashes far,

lighting the fields beyond. To meet them moves

a Phrygian company, to join with theirs

its lamentation loud. The Latin wives,

soon as they saw them entering, aroused

the whole sad city with shrill songs of woe.

No hand could stay Evander. Forth he flew

into the midmost tumult, and fell prone

on 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 woo

in a first battle. O first-fruit forlorn

of youth so fair! O prelude pitiless

of war approaching! O my vows and prayers,

which not one god would hear! My blessed wife,

how happy was the death that spared thee not

to taste this bitterness! But I, the while,

by living longer lived to meet my doom,—

a father sole-surviving. Would I myself

had perished by the Rutule's cruel spear,

the Trojan's cause espousing! This breath of life

how gladly had I given! And O, that now

yon black solemnity were bearing home

myself, 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 fallen

untimely, I take comfort that he fell

where thousands of the Volscians slaughtered lie,

and into Latium led the Teucrian arms.

What brighter glory could I crave in death

for thee, my Pallas, than Aeneas brings,

and Phrygian princes, and Etrurian lords

with all Etruria's legions? Lo, they bear

yon glittering spoils of victims of thy sword!

Thou, Turnus, too, wert now an effigy

in giant armor clad, if but his years

and strength full ripe had been fair match for thine!

But now my woes detain the Trojan host

from 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 sword

can bid me live. Then let thy sword repay

its debt to sire and son by Turnus slain!

Such deed alone may with thy honor fit,

and happier fortunes. But my life to me

has no joy left to pray for, save to bring

my son that solace in the shadowy land.”

Meanwhile o'er sorrowing mortals the bright morn

had lifted her mild beam, renewing so

the burden of man's toil. Aeneas now

built funeral pyres along the winding shore,

King Tarchon at his side. Each thither brought

the bodies of his kin, observing well

all ancient ritual. The fuming fires

burned from beneath, till highest heaven was hid

in blackest, overmantling cloud. Three times

the warriors, sheathed in proud, resplendent steel,

paced round the kindling pyres; and three times

fair companies of horsemen circled slow,

with loud lamenting, round the doleful flame.

The wail of warriors and the trumpets' blare

the very welkin rend. Cast on the flames

are spoils of slaughtered Latins,—helms and blades,

bridles and chariot-wheels. Yet others bring

gifts to the dead familiar, their own shields

and unavailing spears. Around them slain

great 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 multitude

behold their comrades burning, and keep guard

o'er the consuming pyres, nor turn away

till cooling night re-shifts the globe of heaven,

thick-strewn with numberless far-flaming stars.

Likewise the mournful Latins far away

have built their myriad pyres. Yet of the slain

not few in graves are laid, and borne with tears