And yet, O king, You will not see him slain by shameful wounds, You will not long for a dire death to cancel The memory of a son, safe, but a coward. We have lost a great protection, all of us, Ausonia, Iulus.” He gave orders To raise the pitiful body for its journey, And chose a thousand men to honor Pallas With this last escort, to share Evander’s tears, Poor comfort for so great a grief, but due him. Men weave the bier with osier and soft willow And shadow it over with leaves of oak, and Pallas Rests on his country litter, like a flower Some girl has picked and lost, a violet Or drooping hyacinth, and all its luster Still there, though earth is kind to it no longer. And then Aeneas brought two robes, whose crimson Was stiff with gold, robes that the queen of Carthage Had woven for him, happy in her labor, Running the gold through crimson. Over Pallas The robes are cast, the sad and final honor, The hair is veiled for the fire, and many trophies Are added, prizes from the Latin battles, Horses, and weapons, captured from the Latins, And human victims, offerings to the shades, Their blood to sprinkle funeral fire, are led Hands bound behind them, and the names of foemen Are cut in the trunks of trees that bear their armor. Unhappy old Acoetes trudges with them, Beating his breast, clawing his face, or flinging His wretched body down in the dust. And chariots Follow, Rutulian blood on wheel and axle, And Pallas’ war-horse Aethon, riderless, Without caparison, weeps for his master, The great tears rolling down. Other men carry The spear and helmet only, for the rest Turnus had taken as spoil. And then there follows A long array of mourners, Trojans, Tuscans, Arcadians, with arms reversed: so they pass In long procession, comrade after comrade, Far on and almost out of sight. Aeneas Halts, and sighs deeply:--“The same grim fates of war Call us from here to other tears. Forever Hail, O great Pallas, and farewell forever!” He said no more, but turned to the high walls, Strode back to the camp.