HKB
But first the corpse of our unhappy friend To the sad city of Evander send, Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom, Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way, Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay. Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d With equal faith, but less auspicious care. Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share. 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 Aeneas view’d the grisly wound Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore, And the fair flesh distain’d with purple gore; First, melting into tears, the pious man Deplor’d so sad a sight, then thus began: “Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest Of my full wishes, she refus’d the best! She came; but brought not thee along, to bless My longing eyes, and share in my success: She grudg’d thy safe return, the triumphs due To prosp’rous valour, in the public view. Not thus I promis’d, when thy father lent Thy needless succour with a sad consent; Embrac’d me, parting for th’ Etrurian land, And sent me to possess a large command. He warn’d, and from his own experience told, Our foes were warlike, disciplin’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 pow’rs below. The wretched father, ere his race is run, Shall view the fun’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 disgrac’d his ancestry; Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev’d: Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv’d. He died no death to make thee wish, too late, Thou hadst not liv’d to see his shameful fate: But what a champion has th’ Ausonian coast, And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!”
Thus having mourn’d, he gave the word around, To raise the breathless body from the ground; And chose a thousand horse, the flow’r of all His warlike troops, to wait the funeral, To bear him back and share Evander’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: Strew’d leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn. All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow’r, New cropp’d by virgin hands, to dress the bow’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 emboss’d, For ornament the Trojan hero brought, Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought. One vest array’d the corpse; and one they spread O’er his clos’d eyes, and wrapp’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—th’ achievements of the dead. Then, pinion’d with their hands behind, appear Th’ unhappy captives, marching in the rear, Appointed off’rings in the victor’s name, To sprinkle with their blood the fun’ral flame. Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne; Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn; And fair inscriptions fix’d, and titles read Of Latian leaders conquer’d by the dead.