XXIV. Meanwhile to weary mortals fresh and fair
Upsprings the Dawn, and reawakes the land
To toil and labour. Reared with pious care
By Tarchon and the good Æneas, stand
The funeral pyres along the winding strand.
Here brings each warrior, as in days gone by,
His comrade's corpse, and holds the lighted brand.
The dusk flames burn beneath them, and on high		208
The clouds of smoke roll up, and shroud the lofty sky.
XXV. Three times the Trojans, sheathed in shining mail,
Pace round the piles; three times they ride around
The funeral fire, and raise the warrior's wail.
Tears bathe their arms, and tears bedew the ground,
And, mixt with clamour, comes the clarion's sound.
Spoils of dead Latins on the flames are thrown,
Bits, bridles, glowing wheels and helmets crown'd
With glittering plumes, and, last, the gifts well-known,		217
The luckless spear and shield, the weapons of their own.
XXVI. Oxen in numbers round the pyres are slain
To Death's dread power, and herds of bristly swine;
And cattle, snatched from all the neighbouring plain,
And sheep they slaughter for the flames divine.
Far down the sea-coast, where the bale-fires shine,
They guard and gaze upon the pyres, where lie
Their burning comrades, nor their watch resign,
Nor leave the spot, till dewy night on high		226
Rolls round the circling heavens, and starlight gilds the sky.
XXVII. Nor less the sorrowing Latins build elsewhere
Their countless piles. These burying they bemoan;
Those to the town or neighbouring fields they bear.
The rest, untold, unhonoured and unknown,
A mass of carnage, on the flames are thrown.
Thick blaze the fires, and light the plains around,
And on the third dawn, when the mists have flown,
The bones and dust, still smouldering on the ground,		235
Mourning, they rake in heaps, and cover with a mound.
XXVIII. But loudest in Laurentum rose the noise
Of woe and wailing for their friends who died.
Here, mothers, wives, sad sisters, orphaned boys
Curse the dire war, and Turnus and his bride.
"Let him, let Turnus fight it out," they cried;
"Who claims chief honours and Italia's throne,
And caused the quarrel, let his sword decide";
And spiteful Drances: "Ay, 'tis he alone		244
Whom Latium's foes demand; the challenge is his own."
XXIX. And voices, too, with various reasons, plead
For Turnus, sheltered by the queen's great name,
And spoils that speak for many a glorious deed.
Lo, in the midst, the tumult still aflame,
With doleful news from Diomede, back came
The envoys. All was useless,—gifts, and prayer,
And proffered gold; his answer was the same:
Let Latins look for other arms elsewhere,		253
Or beg the Trojan king in clemency to spare.

XXX. Grief bowed Latinus, and his heart sank low.
The wrath of Heaven, the recent funerals,
The graves before them—all Æneas show
The god's true choice. A council straight he calls,
And Latium's chiefs convenes within his walls.
All meet; along the crowded ways the peers
Stream at the summons. In his palace-halls
Amidst them sits Latinus, first in years,		262
And first in sceptred state, but filled with anxious fears.

XXXI. Forthwith the envoys he invites, each man
To tell his message, and the terms expound,
Then, silence made, thus Venulus began:
"Friends, we have seen great [Diomede,] and found
The Argive camp, and, safe from peril, crowned
Our journey's end, and pressed the mighty hand
That razed old Troy. On [Iapygian] ground
By [Garganus] the conqueror hath planned		271
Argyripa's new town, named from his native land.