The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked fhag in triumph borne,
Was hung on high; and glitter'd from afar :
A trophy facred to the god of war.
Above his arms, fix'd on the leaflefs wood,
Appear'd his plumy creft, befmear'd with blood;
His brazen buckler on the left was feen
Truncheons of fhiver'd lances hung between :
And on the right was plac'd his corflet, bor'd;
And to the neck was ty'd his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclofe the godlike man:
Who thus, confpicuous in the midft, began:
Our toils, my friends, are crown'd with fure fuccefs.: The greater part perform'd, atchieve the lefs. Now follow chearful to the trembling town; Prefs but an entrance, and prefume it won.
Fear is no more: for fierce Mezentius lies,
As the firft fruits of war, a facrifice.
Turnus shall stand extended on the pain;
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 walike enfigns waving in the wind.
Mean time the rites and funeral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war :
The last respect the living can bestow,
To fhield their fhadows from contempt below.
hat conquer'd earth be theirs for which they fought; which for us with their own blood they bought..
But firft the corpfe of our unhappy friend,
To the fad city of Evander fend:
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 :
Acœtes watch'd the corpfe; whofe 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 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 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 blefs
My longing eyes, and share 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, difciplin'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 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 for, whofe death disgrac'd his ancestry;
Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev'd:
Thy Pallas no dishoneft wound receiv'd.
He dy'd no death to make thee wish, 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 breathlefs body from the ground; And chofe a thousand horfe, 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). Of oaken twigs they twift an easy bier;
Then on their fhoulders the fad burden rear.
The body on this rural herfe is born,
ew'd leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.
All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flower,
New cropt by virgin hands, to dress 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 vest 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 fhould fall,
The catching fire might burn the golden caul.
Besides, the spoils 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; 122
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 breast, and rends his hoary hair.
The champion's chariot next is seen to roll,
Befmear'd with hostile 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 hoarsely 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 i
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.
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