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success:
She grudgā€™d thy safe return, the triumphs due
To prospā€™rous valour, in the public view.
Not thus I promisā€™d, when thy father lent
Thy needless succour with a sad consent;
Embracā€™d me, parting for thā€™ Etrurian land,
And sent me to possess a large command.
He warnā€™d, and from his own experience told,
Our foes were warlike, disciplinā€™d, and bold.
And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,
Rich odors on his loaded altars burn,
While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare
To send him back his portion of the war,
A bloody breathless body, which can owe
No farther debt, but to the powā€™rs below.
The wretched father, ere his race is run,
Shall view the funā€™ral honours of his son.
These are my triumphs of the Latian war,
Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care!
And yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see
A son whose death disgracā€™d his ancestry;
Thou shalt not blush, old man, however grievā€™d:
Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receivā€™d.
He died no death to make thee wish, too late,
Thou hadst not livā€™d to see his shameful fate:
But what a champion has thā€™ Ausonian coast,
And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!ā€

Thus having mournā€™d, he gave the word around,
To raise the breathless body from the ground;
And chose a thousand horse, the flowā€™r of all
His warlike troops, to wait the funeral,
To bear him back and share Evanderā€™s grief:
A well-becoming, but a weak relief.
Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier,
Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear.
The body on this rural hearse is borne:
Strewā€™d leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.
All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flowā€™r,
New croppā€™d by virgin hands, to dress the bowā€™r:
Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below,
No more to mother earth or the green stern shall owe.
Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost,
Of purple woven, and with gold embossā€™d,
For ornament the Trojan hero brought,
Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
One vest arrayā€™d the corpse; and one they spread
Oā€™er his closā€™d eyes, and wrappā€™d around his head,
That, when the yellow hair in flame should fall,
The catching fire might burn the golden caul.
Besides, the spoils of foes in battle slain,
When he descended on the Latian plain;
Arms, trappings, horses, by the hearse are led
In long array ā€”thā€™ achievements of the dead.
Then, pinionā€™d with their hands behind, appear
Thā€™ unhappy captives, marching in the rear,
Appointed offā€™rings in the victorā€™s name,
To sprinkle with their blood the funā€™ral flame.
Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne;
Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn;
And fair inscriptions fixā€™d, and titles read
Of Latian leaders conquerā€™d by the dead.

Acoetes on his pupilā€™s corpse attends,
With feeble steps, supported by his friends.
Pausing at evā€™ry pace, in sorrow drownā€™d,
Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground;
Where grovā€™ling while he lies in deep despair,
He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.
The championā€™s chariot next is seen to roll,
Besmearā€™d with hostile blood, and honourably foul.
To close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state,
Is led, the funā€™rals of his lord to wait.
Strippā€™d of his trappings, with a sullen pace
He walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face.
The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest,
Are borne behind: the victor seizā€™d the rest.
The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound;
The pikes and lances trail along the ground.
Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse
To Pallantean towā€™rs direct their course,
In long procession rankā€™d, the pious chief
Stoppā€™d in the rear, and gave a vent to grief:
ā€œThe public care,ā€ he said, ā€œwhich war attends,
Diverts our present woes, at least suspends.
Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell!
Hail, holy relics! and a last farewell!ā€
He said no more, but, inly throā€™ he mournā€™d,
Restrained his tears, and to the camp returnā€™d.

Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand
A truce, with olive branches in their hand;
Obtest his clemency, and from the plain
Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain.
They plead, that none those common rites deny
To conquerā€™d foes that in fair battle die.
All cause of hate was ended in their death;
Nor could he war with bodies void of breath.
A king, they hopā€™d, would hear a kingā€™s request,
Whose son he once was callā€™d, and once his guest.

Their suit, which was too just to be denied,
The hero grants, and farther thus replied:
ā€œO Latian princes, how severe a fate
In causeless quarrels has involvā€™d your state,
And armā€™d against an unoffending man,
Who sought your friendship ere the war began!
You beg a truce, which I would gladly give,
Not only for the slain, but those who live.
I came not hither but by Heavā€™nā€™s command,
And sent by fate to share the Latian land.
Nor wage I wars unjust: your king denied
My profferā€™d friendship, and my promisā€™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 dispute: the slain
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 (so tell him) to possess
The royal virgin, and restore the peace.
Bear this message back, with ample leave,
That your slain friends may funā€™ral rites receive.ā€

Thus having said ā€”thā€™ embassadors, amazā€™d,
Stood mute a while, and on each other gazā€™d.
DrancĆ«s, their chief, who harbourā€™d in his breast
Long hate to Turnus, as his foe professā€™d,
Broke silence first, and to the godlike man,
With graceful action bowing, thus began:
ā€œAuspicious prince, in arms a mighty name,
But yet whose actions far transcend your fame;
Would I your justice or your force express,
Thought can but equal; and all words are less.
Your answer we shall thankfully relate,
And favours granted to the Latian state.
If wishā€™d success our labour shall attend,
Think peace concluded, and the king your friend:
Let Turnus leave the realm to your command,
And seek alliance in some other land:
Build you the city which your fates assign;
We shall be proud in the great work to join.ā€

Thus Drancƫs; and his words so well persuade
The rest impowerā€™d, that soon a truce is made.
Twelve days the term allowā€™d: and, during those,
Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes,
Mixā€™d in the woods, for funā€™ral piles prepare
To fell the timber, and forget the war.
Loud axes throā€™ the groaning groves resound;
Oak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground;
First fall from high; and some the trunks receive
In loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.

And

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