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 pierced, 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
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.
Part, in the places where they fell, are laid ;
And part are to the neighb'ring fields convey'd.
The corpse of kings, and captains of renown,
Borne off in state, are buried in the town;
The rest, unhonor'd, and without a name,
Are cast a common heap to feed the flame.
Trojans and Latians vie with like desires
To make the field of battle shine with fires;
And the promiscuous blaze to heaven aspires.
Now had the morning thrice renew'd the light,
And thrice dispell'd the shadows of the night,
When those who round the wasted fires remain
Perform the last sad office to the slain.
They rake the yet warm ashes from below;
These, and the bones unburn'd, in earth bestow:
These relics with their country rites they grace,
And raise a mount of turf to mark the place.
But, in the palace of the king, appears
A scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears.
Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans:
Orphans their sires, and sires lament their sons.
All in that universal sorrow share,
And curse the cause of this unhappy war-
A broken league, a bride unjustly sought,
A crown usurp'd, which with their blood is bought!
These are the crimes with which they load the name
Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim :
'Let him, who lords it o'er th' Ausonian land,
Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand:
His is the gain: our lot is but to serve :
'Tis just the sway he seeks he should deserve.' This Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite, His foe expects, and dares him to the fight.
Nor Turnus wants a party, to support
His cause and credit in the Latian court.
His former acts secure his present fame;
And the queen shades him with her mighty name.
While thus their factious minds with fury burn
The legates from th' Ætolian prince return :
Sad news they bring, that, after all the cost
And care employ'd, their embassy is lost;
That Diomede refused his aid in war,
Unmoved with presents, and as deaf to pray'r.
Some new alliance must elsewhere be sought,
Or peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.
Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late
A foreign son is pointed out by fate;
And, till Æneas shall Lavinia wed,
The wrath of heav'n is hov'ring o'er his head.
The gods, he saw, espoused the juster side,
When late their titles in the field were tried:
Witness the fresh laments, and fun'ral tears undried.
Thus full of anxious thought, he summons all The Latian senate to the council-hall.
The princes come, commanded by their head,
And crowd the paths that to the palace lead.
Supreme in pow'r, and rev'renced for his years,
He takes the throne, and in the midst appears.
Majestically sad, he sits in state,
And bids his envoys their success relate.
When Venulus began, the murm'ring sound Was hush'd, and sacred silence reign'd around. 'We have,' said he, 'perform'd your high command, And pass'd with peril a long tract of land: We reach'd the place desired; with wonder fill'd, The Grecian tents and rising tow'rs beheld. Great Diomede has compass'd round with walls The city, which Argyripa he calls,
From his own Argos named. We touch'd, with joy,
The royal hand that razed unhappy Troy.
When introduced, our presents first we bring,
Then crave an instant audience from the king.
His leave obtain'd, our native soil we name,
And tell th' important cause for which we came.
Attentively he heard us, while we spoke;
Then, with soft accents, and a pleasing look,
Made this return : 'Ausonian race, of old
Renown'd for peace, and for an age of gold,
What madness has your alter'd minds possess'd,
To change for war hereditary rest,
Solicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword
A needless ill, your ancestors abhorr'd?
We-for myself I speak, and all the name
Of Grecians, who to Troy's destruction came-
(Omitting those who were in battle slain,
Or borne by rolling Simoïs to the main,)
Not one but suffer'd, and too dearly bought
The prize of honor which in arms he sought.
Some doom'd to death, and some in exile driv'n-
Outcasts, abandon'd by the care of heav'n
So worn, so wretched, so despised a crew,
As ev'n old Priam might with pity view.
Witness the vessels by Minerva toss'd
In storms-the vengeful Capharean coast-
Th' Eubœan rocks-the prince, whose brother led
Our armies to revenge his injured bed,
In Egypt lost. Ulysses, with his men,
Have seen Charybdis, and the Cyclops' den.
Why should I name Idomeneus, in vain
Restored to sceptres, and expell'd again?
Or young Achilles, by his rival slain ?
Ev'n he, the king of men, the foremost name
Of all the Greeks, and most renown'd by fame,
The proud revenger of another's wife,
Yet by his own adult'ress lost his life-
Fell at his threshold: and the spoils of Troy
The foul polluters of his bed enjoy.
The gods have envied me the sweets of life,
My much loved country, and my more loved wife:
Banish'd from both, I mourn; while in the sky,
Transform'd to birds, my lost companions fly:
Hov'ring about the coasts they make their moan,
And cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own.
What squalid spectres in the dead of night
Break my short sleep, and skim before my sight!
I might have promised to myself those harms,
Mad as I was, when I, with mortal arms,
Presumed against immortal pow'rs to move,
And violate with wounds the queen of love.
Such arms this hand shall never more employ.
No hate remains with me to ruin'd Troy.
I war not with its dust, nor am I glad
To think of past events, or good or bad.
Your presents I return: whate'er you bring
To buy my friendship, send the Trojan king.
We met in fight: I know him, to my cost:
With what a whirling force his lance he toss'd!
Heav'ns! what a spring was in his arm, to throw !
How high he held his shield, and rose at ev'ry blow!
Had Troy produced two more his match in might,
They would have changed the fortune of the fight: 440
Th' invasion of the Greeks had been return'd,
Our empire wasted, and our cities burn'd.
The long defence the Trojan people made,
The war protracted, and the siege delay'd,
Were due to Hector's and this hero's hand:
Both brave alike, and equal in command;
Æneas, not inferior in the field,
In pious rev'rence to the gods excell'd.
Make peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care
Th' impending dangers of a fatal war.'
He said no more; but, with this cold excuse,
Refused th' alliance, and advised a truce.'
Thus Venulus concluded his report.
A jarring murmur fill'd the factious court ;
As, when a torrent rolls with rapid force,
And dashes o'er the stones that stop the course,
The flood, constrain'd within a scanty space,
Roars horrible along th' uneasy race;
White foam in gath'ring eddies floats around;
The rocky shores rebellow to the sound.
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