Just where the stroke was aim'd, th' unerring spear Made way, and stood transfix'd through either ear. Seis'd with unwonted pain, surpris'd with fright, The wounded steed curvets, and, rais'd upright, 1280 Lights on his feet before: his hoofs behind
Spring up in air aloft, and lash the wind.
Down comes the rider headlong from his height:
His horse came after with unwieldy weight,
And, flound'ring forward, pitching on his head, 1285
His lord's encumber'd shoulder overlaid.
From either host, the mingled shouts and cries
Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies:
Æneas, hast'ning, wav'd his fatal sword
High o'er his head, with this reproachful word: 1290 "Now! where are now the vaunts, the fierce disdain, Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain ?"
Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies
With scarce recover'd sight, he thus replies: 1294 "Why these insulting words, this waste of breath, To souls undaunted, and secure of death?
"Tis no dishonour for the brave to die :
Nor came I here with hope of victory;
Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design.
As I had us'd my fortune, use thou thine.
My dying son contracted no such band:
The gift is hateful from his murd'rer's hand.
For this, this only favour let me sue,
If pity can to conquer'd foes be due,
Refuse it not but let my body have
The last retreat of human kind, a grave.
Too well I know th' insulting people's hate :
Protect me from their vengeance after fate:
This refuge for my poor remains provide ;
And lay my much-lov'd Lausus by my side." 1310
He said, and to the sword his throat apply'd.
The crimson stream distain'd his arms around,
And the disdainful soul came rushing through the
Æneas erects a trophy of the spoils of Mezentius, grants a truce for burying the dead, and sends home the body of Pallas with great solemnity. Latinus calls a council, to propose offers of peace to Æneas; which occasions great animosity betwixt Turnus and Drances. In the mean time there is a sharp engagement of the horse; wherein Camilla signalises herself, is killed; and the Latine troops are entirely defeated.
SCARCE had the rosy morning rais'd her head
Above the waves, and left her wat'ry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unbury'd soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to heav'n perform'd a victor's vows :
He bar'd an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac'd,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he graç'd.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne,
Was hung on high, and glitter'd from afar,
A trophy sacred to the god of war.
Above his arms, fix'd on the leafless wood,
Appear'd his plumy crest, besmear'd with blood.
His brazen buckler on the left was seen;
Trunchions of shiver'd lances hung between;
And on the right was plac'd his corslet, bor'd;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:
"Our toils, my friends, are crown'd with sure success:
The greater part perform'd, achieve the less,
Now follow cheerful to the trembling town;
Press but an entrance, and presume it won,
Fear is no more: for fierce Mezentius lies,
As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,
And, in this omen, is already slain.
Prepar'd in arms, pursue your happy chance;
That none unwarn'd may plead his ignorance,
And I, at heav'n's appointed hour, may find
Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind,
Meantime the rites and fun'ral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war-
The last respect the living can bestow,
To shield their shadows from contempt below...
That conquer'dearth be theirs, for which they fought,
And which for us with their own blood they bought.
But first the corps of our unhappy friend
To the sad city of Evander send,
Who, not inglorious, in his age's bloom
Was hurry'd hence by too severe a doom.”
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his
Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.
Acœtes watch'd the corps; whose youth deserv'd 45
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 Æneas 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 full wishes, she refus'd the best!
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