Far off he heard their cries, far off divin'd
The dire event with a foreboding mind.
With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head;
Then both his lifted hands to heaven he spread ;
Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said:
"What joys, alas! could this frail being give,
That I have been so covetous to live?

To see my son, and such a son, resign
His life a ransom for preserving mine?
And am I then preserv'd, and art thou lost?
How much too dear has that redemption cost!
'Tis now my bitter banishment I feel :
This is a wound too deep for time to heal.
My guilt thy growing virtues did defame;
My blackness blotted thy unblemish'd name.
Chas'd from a throne, abandon'd, and exil'd
For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild:
I ow'd my people these, and, from their hate,
With less resentment could have borne my fate.
And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight

Of hated men, and of more hated light

But will not long." With that he rais'd from ground
His fainting limbs that stagger'd with his wound;
Yet with a mind resolv'd, and unappall'd,

With pains or perils for his courser call'd-
Well-mouth'd, well-manag'd, whom himself did dress
With daily care, and mounted with success-
His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.

Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke,
The steed seem'd sensible while thus he spoke :
"O Rhoebus! we have liv'd too long for me-
If life and long were terms that could agrec.
This day thou either shalt bring back the head
And bloody trophies of the Trojan dead-
This day thou either shalt revenge my woe,
For murder'd Lausus, on his cruel foe;
Or, if inexorable Fate deny

Our conquest, with thy conquer'd master die :
For, after such a lord, I rest secure,

Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load, endure."

He said and straight th' officious courser kneels,

To take his wonted weight. His hands he fills
With pointed jav'lins: on his head he lac'd
His glitt'ring helm, which terribly was grac'd
With waving horse-hair, nodding from afar ;
Then spurr'd his thund'ring steed amidst the war.
Love, anguish, wrath, and grief to madness wrought,

Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought Of inborn worth, his lab'ring soul oppress'd, Roll'd in his eyes, and rag'd within his breast. Then loud he call'd Æneas thrice by name :

་་

The loud repeated voice to glad Æneas came.
Great Jove," he said, and the far-shooting god,
Inspire thy inind to make thy challenge good!"
He spoke no more, but hasten'd, void of fear,
And threaten'd with his long protended spear.

To whom Mezentius thus: Thy vaunts are vain. My Lausus lies extended on the plain :

He's lost thy conquest is already won:
The wretched sire is murder'd in the son.
Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.

Forbear thy threats: my bus'ness is to die :
But first receive this parting legacy."

He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent :
Another after, and another, went.

Round in a spacious ring he rides the field,
And vainly plies th' impenetrable shield.

Thrice rode he round, and thrice Æneas wheel'd;
Turn'd as he turn'd: the golden orb withstood
The strokes, and bore about an iron wood.
Impatient of delay, and weary grown,
Still to defend, and to defend alone,

To wrench the darts which in his buckler light,
Urg'd, and o'erlabor'd in unequal fight-

At length resolv'd, he throws, with all his force,
Full at the temples of the warrior horse.
Just where the stroke was aim'd, th' unerring spear
Made way, and stood transfix'd through either ear.
Seiz'd with unwonted pain, surpris'd with fright,
The wounded steed curvets, and, rais'd upright,
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,
His lord's encumber'd shoulder overlaid.
From either host, the mingled shouts and cries
Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies :
Eneas, hast'ning, wav'd his fatal sword
High o'er his head, with this reproachful word :
Now, where are now the taunts, 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:

"Why these insulting words, this waste of breath,
To souls undaunted, and secure of death?
'Tis no dishonor 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 murderer's hand.
For this, this only favor 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 the 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."
He said, and to the sword his throat applied.
The crimson stream distain'd his arms around,

And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.

ENEIS.

BOOK XI.

ARGUMENT.

Eneas 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 signalizes herself; is killed, and the Latine troops are entirely defeated.

S

CARCE had the rosy morning raised her head
Above the waves, and left her wat❜ry bed;

The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unburied 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 grac'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 :
Truncheons of shiver'd lances hung between ;
And on the right was plac'd his corselet, 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 heaven'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'd earth be theirs, for which they fought, And which for us with their own blood they bought. 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.
Acœtes 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 dishevell'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
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 valor, in the public view.
Not thus I promis'd, when thy father lent
Thy needless succor 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;