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 Heav’n’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. Acoetes 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 dishevel’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 Aeneas 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 valour, in the public view. Not thus I promis’d, when thy father lent Thy needless succour 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, While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare To send him back his portion of the war, A bloody breathless body, which can owe No farther debt, but to the pow’rs below. The wretched father, ere his race is run, Shall view the fun’ral honours of his son.