But firft the corpfe of our unhappy friend,
To the fad city of Evander send :
Who not inglorious in his age's bloom
Was hurry'd hence by too fevere a doom.
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way, Where, now in death, lamented Pallas lay : Accetes watch'd the corpfe; whose 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 these 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 fky. 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: First, melting into tears, the pious man Deplor'd fo fad a fight, then thus began: Unhappy youth! when fortune gave the rest Of my full wishes, the refus'd the best! She came; but brought not thee along, to bless My longing eyes, and fhare 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 poffets 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 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 fon.
These are my triumphs of the Latian war;
Fruits of my plighted faith, and boasted care.
And yet, unhappy Sire, thou shalt not fee
A fon, whose death disgrac'd his ancestry;
Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev'd:
Thy Pallas no difhoneft wound receiv'd.
He dy'd no death to make thee with, 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, Afcanius, loft!
Thus having mourn'd, he gave the word around,
To raise the breathless body from the ground;
And chofe a thousand horse, the flower of all
His warlike troops, wait the funeral:
To bear him back, and share Evander's grief
(A well-becoming, but a weak relief).
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 stem shall owe.
Then two fair vefts, of wondrous work and cost,
Of purple woven, and with gold em bofs'd,
For ornament the Trojan hero brought,
Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
One veft array'd the corpse, 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 spoils of foes in battle flain,
When he descended 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 sprinkle 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:
Pausing at every pace, in forrow drown'd,
Betwixt their arms he finks upon the ground.
Where groveling, while he lies in deep defpair,
He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.
B 3
The champion's chariot next is feen to roll,
Befmear'd with hoftile blood, and honourably foul.
To close the pomp, Ethon, the fteed 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 feiz'd the reft.
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 course,
In long proceffion rank'd; the pious chief
Stopp'd in the rear, and gave a vent to grief.
The public care, he said, which war attends,
Diverts our prefent woes, at least suspends:
Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell;
Hail holy relicks, and a last farewell!
He said 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 juft 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 those who live.
I came not hither but by heaven's command,
And fent by Fate to fhare the Latian land.
Nor wage I wars unjuft; your king deny'd
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 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 reftore the peace.
Bear this my meffage back; with ample leave
That your flain friends may funeral-rites receive. 180
Thus having faid, th' embaffadors 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 profefs'd,
Broke filence first, and to the godlike man,
With graceful action bowing, thus began:
Aufpicious prince, in arms a mighty name,
But yet whose actions far tranfcend your fame :
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