VI. He marked the pillowed head, the snow-white face,
The smooth breast, gaping with the wound, and cried
In anguish, while the tears burst forth apace,
"Poor boy; hath Fortune, in her hour of pride,
To me thy triumph and return denied?
Not such my promise to thy sire; not so
My pledge to him, who, ere I left his side
In quest of empire, clasped me, boding woe,		46
And warned the race was fierce, and terrible the foe.
VII. "He haply now, by empty hope betrayed,
With prayer and presents doth the gods constrain.
We to the dead, whose debt to Heaven is paid,
The rites of mourners render, but in vain.
Unhappy! doomed to see thy darling slain.
Is this the triumph? this the promise sworn?
This the return? Yet never thine the pain
A coward's flight, a coward's scars to mourn;		55
Not thine to long for death, thy loved one saved with scorn.
VIII. "Ah, weep, Ausonia! thou hast lost to-day
Thy champion. Weep, Iulus; he is ta'en,
Thy heart's delight, the bulwark of the fray!"
Thus he with tears, and bids them lift the slain.
A thousand men, the choicest of his train,
He sends as mourners, with the corpse to go,
And stand between the parent and his pain,
A scanty solace for so huge a woe,		64
But such as pity claims, and piety doth owe.
IX. Of oaken twigs and arbutus they wove
A wattled bier. Soft leaves beneath him made
His pillow, and with leafy boughs above
They twined a verdurous canopy of shade.
There, on his rustic couch the youth is laid,
Fair as the hyacinth, with drooping head,
Cropped by the careless fingers of a maid,
Or tender violet, when life has fled,		73
That, torn from earth, still blooms, unfaded but unfed.
X. Two purple mantles, stiff with golden braid,
Æneas brings, which erst, in loving care,
Sidonian Dido with her hands had made,
And pranked with golden tissue, for his wear.
One, wound in sorrow round the corpse so fair,
The last, sad honour, shrouds the senseless clay;
One, ere the burning, veils the warrior's hair.
Rich spoils, the trophies of Laurentum's fray,		82
Stript arms and steeds he brings, and bids them pile the prey.
XI. Here march the captives, doomed to feed the flames;
There, staff in hand, each Dardan chief uprears
The spoil-decked ensigns, marked with foemen's names.
There, too, they lead Acoetes, bowed with years,
He smites his breast, his haggard cheeks he tears,
Then flings his full length prostrate. There, again,
The blood-stained chariot, and with big, round tears,
Stript of his trappings, in the mournful train,		91
Æthon, the warrior's steed, comes sorrowing for the slain.
XII. These bear the dead man's helmet and his spear;
All else the victor for his spoils hath ta'en.
A melancholy phalanx close the rear,
Teucrians, and Tuscans, and Arcadia's train,
With arms reversed, and mourning for the slain.
So passed the pomp, and, while the tear-drops fell,
Æneas stopped, and, groaning, cried again,
"Hail, mighty Pallas! us the fates compel		100
Yet other tears to shed. Farewell! a long farewell!"

XIII. He spake, then, turning, to the camp doth fare.
Thither Laurentum's envoys found their way.
Branches of olive in their hands they bear,
And beg a truce,—a respite from the fray,
Their slaughtered comrades in the ground to lay,
And glean the war's sad harvest. Brave men ne'er
Warred with the dead and vanquished. Once were they
His hosts and kinsmen; he would surely spare.		109
Their plea Æneas owns, and thus accosts them fair:
XIV. "What mischief, Latins, hath your minds misled,
To shun our friendship in the hour of need,
And rush to arms? Peace ask ye for the dead,
The War-God's prey, whom folly doomed to bleed?
Peace to the living would I fain concede.
I came not hither, but with Heaven to guide.
Fate chose this country, and this home decreed;
Nor war I with the race. Your king denied		118
Our proffered league; 'twas he on Turnus' arms relied.