XV. "'Twere juster then that Turnus hand to hand
His life had ventured. Dreams he in his pride
To end the war, and drive us from the land?
He should have met me; he or I had died,
As Fate or prowess might the day decide.
Go, take your dead, and let the bale-fires blaze:
Ye have your answer." Thus the prince replied,
And each on each the wondering heralds gaze,		127
Mute with admiring awe, and wildered with amaze.
XVI. Then Drances, ever fain with gibes and hate
To vex young Turnus, takes the word and cries,
"O Trojan, great in fame, in arms more great,
What praise of mine shall match thee with the skies?
What most—thy deeds or justice—shall I prize?
Grateful, this answer to our friends we bear,
And thee (let Turnus seek his own allies),
Thee King Latinus shall his friend declare,		136
And Latium's sons with joy Troy's destined walls prepare."

XVII. He spake; as one, all murmur their assent.
For twice six days a solemn truce they plight,
And Teucrians, now, with Latins, freely blent
In peaceful fellowship, as friends unite,
And roam the wooded hills. Sharp axes smite
The sounding ash; these with keen wedges cleave
Tall oak and scented cedar; those with might
The pine-tree, soaring to the stars, upheave,		145
And wains, with groaning wheels, the giant elms receive.
XVIII. Now Rumour, harbinger of woe so great,
That told of Pallas victor, fills again
Evander's town. All hurry to the gate,
With torches snatched, as ancient rites ordain.
A line of fire, that parts the dusky plain,
The long road gleams before them, as they go
To meet the mourners. Soon the wailing train
The Phrygians join. With shrieks the matrons know		154
Far off the funeral throng, and fill the town with woe.
XIX. Naught stays Evander; through the midst he springs,
And falling on the bier, as down they lay
Dead Pallas, groaning to his child he clings,
And hangs with tears upon the senseless clay,
Till speech, half-choked with sorrow, finds a way.
"Pallas, not such thy promise to thy sire,
Warely to trust the War-God in the fray.
I knew what ardour would thy soul inspire,		163
The charms of new-won fame, and battle's fierce desire.
XX. "O bitter first-fruits of a youth so fair!
O war's stern prelude! promise dashed to scorn!
Unheeded vows, and unavailing prayer!
O happy spouse! not left, like me, to mourn
A son thus slaughtered, and a life outworn.
I have o'erlived my destiny; life fled
When Pallas left me childless and forlorn.
O, had I fall'n with Trojans in his stead,		172
And me this pomp brought home, and not my Pallas, dead!
XXI. "Yet, Trojans, you I blame not, nor the hands
We joined in friendship, nor the league we swore.
Old age—too old—this cruel lot demands.
Ah, sweet to think, though falling in his flower,
He fell, where thousand Volscians fell before,
Leading Troy's sons to Latium. Thou shalt have
A Trojan's funeral—can I wish thee more?—
What rites Æneas offers to the brave,		181
And all Etruria's hosts shall bear thee to the grave.
XXII. "Proud trophies those who perish by thy hand
Bear thee, and slaughtered foemen speak thy fame.
Thou, Turnus, too, an effigy should'st stand,
Hung round with arms, and Pallas' praise proclaim,
Had but thine age and Pallas' been the same,
Like thine the vigour of his years. But O!
Why, Teucrians, do I keep you? wherefore claim
An old man's privilege of empty woe?		190
This message bear your king, and con it as ye go.
XXIII. "If yet I linger on, with Pallas slain,
Loathing the light, and longing to expire,
'Tis thy right hand that tempts me to remain,
That hand from which—thou see'st it—son and sire
The penalty of Turnus' blood require.
This niche of fame,—'tis all the Fates bestow—
Awaits thee still. For me, all life's desire—
'Twere vain—hath fled; but gladly would I go,		199
And bear the welcome news to Pallas' shade below."