Thus having said—th’ embassadors, amaz’d, Stood mute a while, and on each other gaz’d. Drances, their chief, who harbour’d in his breast Long hate to Turnus, as his foe profess’d, Broke silence first, and to the godlike man, With graceful action bowing, thus began: “Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name, But yet whose actions far transcend your fame; Would I your justice or your force express, Thought can but equal; and all words are less. Your answer we shall thankfully relate, And favours granted to the Latian state. If wish’d success our labour shall attend, Think peace concluded, and the king your friend: Let Turnus leave the realm to your command, And seek alliance in some other land: Build you the city which your fates assign; We shall be proud in the great work to join.” Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade The rest impower’d, that soon a truce is made. Twelve days the term allow’d: and, during those, Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes, Mix’d in the woods, for fun’ral piles prepare To fell the timber, and forget the war. Loud axes thro’ the groaning groves resound; Oak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground; First fall from high; and some the trunks receive In loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave. And now the fatal news by Fame is blown Thro’ the short circuit of th’ Arcadian town, Of Pallas slain—by Fame, which just before His triumphs on distended pinions bore. Rushing from out the gate, the people stand, Each with a fun’ral flambeau in his hand. Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze: The fields are lighten’d with a fiery blaze, That cast a sullen splendour on their friends, The marching troop which their dead prince attends. Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry; The matrons from the walls with shrieks reply, And their mix’d mourning rends the vaulted sky. The town is fill’d with tumult and with tears, Till the loud clamours reach Evander’s ears: Forgetful of his state, he runs along, With a disorder’d pace, and cleaves the throng; Falls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies, With silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes. Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks: