Then thus Ascanius, wonderstruck to see That image of his filial piety: “So great beginnings, in so green an age, Exact the faith which I again engage. Thy mother all the dues shall justly claim, Creusa had, and only want the name. Whate’er event thy bold attempt shall have, ’Tis merit to have borne a son so brave. Now by my head, a sacred oath, I swear, (My father us’d it,) what, returning here Crown’d with success, I for thyself prepare, That, if thou fail, shall thy lov’d mother share.” He said, and weeping, while he spoke the word, From his broad belt he drew a shining sword, Magnificent with gold. Lycaon made, And in an ivory scabbard sheath’d the blade. This was his gift. Great Mnestheus gave his friend A lion’s hide, his body to defend; And good Alethes furnish’d him, beside, With his own trusty helm, of temper tried. Thus arm’d they went. The noble Trojans wait Their issuing forth, and follow to the gate With prayers and vows. Above the rest appears Ascanius, manly far beyond his years, And messages committed to their care, Which all in winds were lost, and flitting air. The trenches first they pass’d; then took their way Where their proud foes in pitch’d pavilions lay; To many fatal, ere themselves were slain. They found the careless host dispers’d upon the plain, Who, gorg’d, and drunk with wine, supinely snore. Unharness’d chariots stand along the shore: Amidst the wheels and reins, the goblet by, A medley of debauch and war, they lie. Observing Nisus shew’d his friend the sight: “Behold a conquest gain’d without a fight. Occasion offers, and I stand prepar’d; There lies our way; be thou upon the guard, And look around, while I securely go, And hew a passage thro’ the sleeping foe.” Softly he spoke; then striding took his way, With his drawn sword, where haughty Rhamnes lay; His head rais’d high on tapestry beneath, And heaving from his breast, he drew his breath; A king and prophet, by King Turnus lov’d: But fate by prescience cannot be remov’d. Him and his sleeping slaves he slew; then spies Where Remus, with his rich retinue, lies. His armour-bearer first, and next he kills His charioteer, intrench’d betwixt the wheels And his lov’d horses; last invades their lord; Full on his neck he drives the fatal sword: The gasping head flies off; a purple flood Flows from the trunk, that welters in the blood, Which, by the spurning heels dispers’d around, The bed besprinkles and bedews the ground. Lamus the bold, and Lamyrus the strong, He slew, and then Serranus fair and young. From dice and wine the youth retir’d to rest, And puff’d the fumy god from out his breast: