Acoetes on his pupil’s corpse attends, With feeble steps, supported by his friends. Pausing at ev’ry pace, in sorrow drown’d, Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground; Where grov’ling while he lies in deep despair, He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair. The champion’s chariot next is seen to roll, Besmear’d with hostile blood, and honourably foul. To close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state, Is led, the fun’rals of his lord to wait. Stripp’d of his trappings, with a sullen pace He walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face. The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest, Are borne behind: the victor seiz’d the rest. The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound; The pikes and lances trail along the ground. Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse To Pallantean tow’rs direct their course, In long procession rank’d, the pious chief Stopp’d in the rear, and gave a vent to grief: “The public care,” he said, “which war attends, Diverts our present woes, at least suspends. Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell! Hail, holy relics! and a last farewell!” He said no more, but, inly thro’ he mourn’d, Restrained his tears, and to the camp return’d. Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand A truce, with olive branches in their hand; Obtest his clemency, and from the plain Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain. They plead, that none those common rites deny To conquer’d foes that in fair battle die. All cause of hate was ended in their death; Nor could he war with bodies void of breath. A king, they hop’d, would hear a king’s request, Whose son he once was call’d, and once his guest. Their suit, which was too just to be denied, The hero grants, and farther thus replied: “O Latian princes, how severe a fate In causeless quarrels has involv’d your state, And arm’d against an unoffending man, Who sought your friendship ere the war began! You beg a truce, which I would gladly give, Not only for the slain, but those who live. I came not hither but by Heav’n’s command, And sent by fate to share the Latian land. Nor wage I wars unjust: your king denied My proffer’d friendship, and my promis’d bride; Left me for Turnus. Turnus then should try His cause in arms, to conquer or to die. My right and his are in dispute: the slain Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain. In equal arms let us alone contend; And let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend. This is the way (so tell him) to possess The royal virgin, and restore the peace. Bear this message back, with ample leave, That your slain friends may fun’ral rites receive.”