Meanwhile Aurora, rising, left the ocean. Aeneas’ heart was troubled--so much dying, So great a need for funeral rites,--but first Vows must be paid for victory. At dawn He sets an oak-trunk on a mound, the branches Stripped off on every side, and hangs upon it Mezentius’ gleaming arms, the war-god’s trophy. He adds the crest, blood-stained, the broken darts, The riddled breast-plate; binds, to the left, the shield, Hangs from the neck the ivory sword. His comrades Hail him, and gather close around, and listen:-- “The greatest task is done: as for the future, Fear not, my heroes! Here are spoils and first-fruits Of one proud king; Mezentius is in our hands. We march, now, on Latinus and his cities. Prepare your arms, your nerve; let your hopes run Onward before the war. When the gods grant us To raise our standards and to lead our army Out of this camp, let no delay impede us Through ignorance, no fear retard our courage. Meanwhile, let us commit to earth the unburied bodies Of our dear comrades, for no other honor Waits them below the world. Go, offer homage, The final rites to those whose blood has won us This fatherland; let Pallas be sent home To the mourning city of Evander: Pallas Had courage, and the day was black that took him To the bitterness of death.” He spoke with tears And went back to the threshold, where old Acoetes, An armor-bearer, once, to king Evander, And then, less happily, guardian over Pallas, Kept watch beside the body. A Trojan throng Stood all around, an honor-guard, and the women Loosened their hair in ceremonial mourning, And when Aeneas came, the lofty portal Sounded with groaning and with lamentation, And wailing reached the stars. He looked at Pallas, The pillowed head, the face as white as snow, The jagged wound in the smooth breast, and spoke, And could not check his weeping:--“Ah, poor youngster! Fortune, a little while, was happy for us And then turned evil and grudging, and refused me The joy of seeing you ride back in triumph To your father’s house with news of our new kingdom. I have not kept my promise to Evander, Whose arms went round me when I left, who sent me To win great empire, and who gave me warning That these were men of spirit, tough in battle. And now, perhaps even at this very moment, The dupe of empty hope, he is making prayers, Heaping the altars high with gifts, while we In sorrow attend his lifeless son, with honor As empty as the father’s hope, for Pallas Owes nothing more to any god in heaven. Unhappy Evander, our long-awaited triumph, Our glorious return, comes to this only, The bitter funeral of a son; and so Aeneas keeps his promise!