I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head Is owing to the living and the dead.
My son and I expect it from his hand;
'T is 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 smold'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 fauchions 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.
Part in the places where they fell are laid;And part are to the neighb'ring fields convey'd.
The corps 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 heav'n 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.