And yet, O king, You will not see him slain by shameful wounds, You will not long for a dire death to cancel The memory of a son, safe, but a coward. We have lost a great protection, all of us, Ausonia, Iulus.”
He gave orders To raise the pitiful body for its journey, And chose a thousand men to honor Pallas With this last escort, to share Evander’s tears, Poor comfort for so great a grief, but due him. Men weave the bier with osier and soft willow And shadow it over with leaves of oak, and Pallas Rests on his country litter, like a flower Some girl has picked and lost, a violet Or drooping hyacinth, and all its luster Still there, though earth is kind to it no longer. And then Aeneas brought two robes, whose crimson Was stiff with gold, robes that the queen of Carthage Had woven for him, happy in her labor, Running the gold through crimson. Over Pallas The robes are cast, the sad and final honor, The hair is veiled for the fire, and many trophies Are added, prizes from the Latin battles, Horses, and weapons, captured from the Latins, And human victims, offerings to the shades, Their blood to sprinkle funeral fire, are led Hands bound behind them, and the names of foemen Are cut in the trunks of trees that bear their armor. Unhappy old Acoetes trudges with them, Beating his breast, clawing his face, or flinging His wretched body down in the dust. And chariots Follow, Rutulian blood on wheel and axle, And Pallas’ war-horse Aethon, riderless, Without caparison, weeps for his master, The great tears rolling down. Other men carry The spear and helmet only, for the rest Turnus had taken as spoil. And then there follows A long array of mourners, Trojans, Tuscans, Arcadians, with arms reversed: so they pass In long procession, comrade after comrade, Far on and almost out of sight. Aeneas Halts, and sighs deeply:--“The same grim fates of war Call us from here to other tears. Forever Hail, O great Pallas, and farewell forever!” He said no more, but turned to the high walls, Strode back to the camp.
And envoys came From the Latin city, veiled with boughs of olive, Asking for truce: let him return the bodies Strewn by the sword across the battlefield, Let them be given burial. No war Is fought with vanquished men, deprived of light: Let him be merciful--had he not called them Hosts at one time, and fathers? And good Aeneas Granted, of right, the truce they sought, and added Brief words:--“What evil destiny, O Latins, Involved you in such tragic war, to flee us, Your friends that might have been? You ask for peace, Peace for the dead, slain by the lot of battle. Peace? I would gladly grant it to the living. I would not be here unless fate had given This place, this dwelling, and I wage no war Against your people, but your king deserted Our friendliness; he had more confidence In Turnus’ weapons. Turnus, in simple justice, Should be the one to face this death. If, truly, He seeks to end the war, to drive the Trojans By strength of hand from Italy, he should have Taken my personal challenge: one of us Would live, to whom his own right hand or heaven Had granted life. Go now, depart in peace, Kindle the death-fires for your luckless comrades.” He spoke, and they were silent: they had nothing That could be said; they could not face him, either, And kept their eyes and faces toward each other.