As if to touch him with his hand, in comfort, Knowing, himself, how one can love a father. “Poor boy, what tribute can Aeneas offer, What praise for so much glory? Keep the armor You loved so much: if there is any comfort In burial at home, know I release you To your ancestral shades and ashes. Further, You have one solace, this, that you have fallen By great Aeneas’ hand.” He lifted Lausus From the bloody ground and raised the head, that dust And earth and blood should not defile its glory, And called the Etruscans closer, scornful of them, Over their hesitation. Meanwhile, Mezentius, by the wave of the river, Propped his slumped frame against a tree-trunk, staunching The wound with water. The bronze helmet hung, Inverted, from the bough; the heavy arms Lay quiet on the meadow. Chosen men Were standing by. Sick, and with labored breath, He let his chin fall forward, rubbed his neck, While over his chest the flowing beard was streaming. Over and over again, he asks and sends For Lausus: bring him back, he tells the men, Those are the orders from his unhappy father. But they were bringing him back, a big man slain By a big wound. Mezentius knew the sound Of sorrow from afar, before he heard it, Fouled his gray hair with dust, flung up his arms, Clung to the body. “O my son, my son, Was I so fond of living that I sent You to the sword for me, saved by your wounds, Alive when you are dead? The wound indeed Is driven deep, the bitterness of death Comes home. I was the one, my son, my son, Who stained your name with crime, with hatred, driven From throne and sceptre. I have owed too long The debt of punishment, and here I am, Living, and never leaving men and light, But I shall leave.” He heaved his sickened weight, Pulling himself together, groin and all, Slowly. The wound was deep, but he could stand. He ordered them to bring his horse, that solace, That pride of his, on which he used to ride Victorious out of all the wars. He spoke, And the beast sorrowed with his master’s sorrow:-- “Rhoebus, if anything is ever long For mortal beings, you and I have lived For a long time. Today you carry back Those bloody spoils, Aeneas’ arms, avenging The pangs of Lausus with me, or we both, If no force clears the way, go down together, O bravest heart, too noble to endure The stranger’s order and the Trojan rider.” He swung astride, shifted his weight a little, The way he always did, held in both hands A load of darts. The helmet glittered bronze, The horsehair plume was bristling as he rode, Madness and grief and shame all urging on That singleness of purpose. He came on fast, Calling, _Aeneas! Aeneas!_ over and over, And his voice was loud and firm. Aeneas heard, Rejoiced, and recognized, and made his prayer:--