HKB
groaning there he lies, With silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes. Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:
“O Pallas! thou hast fail’d thy plighted word, To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword! I warn’d thee, but in vain; for well I knew What perils youthful ardour would pursue, That boiling blood would carry thee too far, Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war! O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom, Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come! Hard elements of unauspicious war, Vain vows to Heav’n, and unavailing care! Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed, Whose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled, Prescious of ills, and leaving me behind, To drink the dregs of life by fate assign’d! Beyond the goal of nature I have gone: My Pallas late set out, but reach’d too soon. If, for my league against th’ Ausonian state, Amidst their weapons I had found my fate, (Deserv’d from them,) then I had been return’d A breathless victor, and my son had mourn’d. Yet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid, Nor grudge th’ alliance I so gladly made. ’Twas not his fault, my Pallas fell so young, But my own crime, for having liv’d too long. Yet, since the gods had destin’d him to die, At least he led the way to victory: First for his friends he won the fatal shore, And sent whole herds of slaughter’d foes before; A death too great, too glorious to deplore. Nor will I add new honours to thy grave, Content with those the Trojan hero gave: That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends design’d, In which the Tuscan chiefs and army join’d. Great spoils and trophies, gain’d by thee, they bear: Then let thy own achievements be thy share. Even thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood, Whose mighty trunk had better grac’d the wood, If Pallas had arriv’d, with equal length Of years, to match thy bulk with equal strength. But why, unhappy man, dost thou detain These troops, to view the tears thou shedd’st in vain? Go, friends, this message to your lord relate: Tell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate, And, after Pallas’ death, live ling’ring on, ’Tis to behold his vengeance for my son. I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head Is owing to the living and the dead. My son and I expect it from his hand; ’Tis all that he can give, or we demand. Joy is no more; but I would gladly go, To greet my Pallas with such news below.”
The morn had now dispell’d the shades of night, Restoring toils, when she restor’d the light. The Trojan king and Tuscan chief command To raise the piles along the winding strand. Their friends convey the dead fun’ral fires; Black smould’ring smoke from the green wood expires; The light of heav’n is chok’d, and the new day retires. Then thrice around the kindled piles they go (For ancient custom had ordain’d it so) Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led; And thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead. Tears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground, And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound. Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw The spoils, in battle taken from the foe: Helms, bits emboss’d, and swords of shining steel; One casts a target, one a chariot wheel; Some to their fellows their own arms restore: The falchions which in luckless fight they bore, Their bucklers pierc’d, their darts bestow’d in vain, And shiver’d lances gather’d from the plain. Whole herds of offer’d bulls, about the fire, And bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire. Around the piles a careful troop attends, To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends; Ling’ring along the shore, till dewy night New decks the face of heav’n with starry light.
The conquer’d Latians, with like pious care, Piles without number for their dead prepare.