And Rumor, messenger of all that mourning, Came flying to Evander’s home and city, Rumor, so short a time before the herald Of victories in Latium for young Pallas. Out to the gates came the Arcadians; torches, Carried aloft, after the ancient custom, Marked off the fields from highway; the long road Shone with the light of fire, and the Trojans, coming, Met their lament, and when the mothers saw them, The city itself was one great fire of mourning. No force could hold Evander back: he came, Rushing, into the sad procession’s center, And where the barrow halted, clung to Pallas, Weeping and groaning, and his voice could hardly Manage its way through choking sobs:--“Ah, Pallas, You have not kept your promise to your father! You said you would be careful in the battles! I knew, I knew too well, how much new glory, How much the sweet fresh pride in the first battle, Could overpower discretion. Here are the first-fruits Of your young manhood; here are the cruel lessons Of war brought home; and all my prayers unheeded By any god! But my dear wife is happy, Spared, by her death, this anguish. I live on, I have overcome my fate by living so, A father who survives his son. I should have Followed the Trojan arms, let the Rutulians O’erwhelm me with their darts; I should have died, And this procession brought me home, not Pallas. It is not your fault, O Trojans; I do not blame you, The treaties joined, the hands we clasped, in friendship. No: this was coming to me, this was due The lot of my old age. An early death Took off my son; I shall rejoice, hereafter, Knowing he led the Trojans into Latium, Slew Volscians by the thousands. He was worthy, Pallas, my son, of such a death. Aeneas, The mighty Trojans, the Etruscan captains, The Etruscan ranks, all think so. They bring trophies, Great trophies, those my son brought low; and Turnus Would be another trophy, were his years, His strength, the same as his young enemy’s. But why am I, unhappy man, delaying The Trojan hosts from battle? Go: remember To tell Aeneas this: I keep on living, However hateful life may be, with Pallas Taken away from me, I keep on living Because of his right hand: it owes me something, The death of Turnus, for the son and father. And this Aeneas knows, the one thing wanting To make his praise and fortune sure. I ask No joy in life--that is impossible-- But only this one thing, to take my son, In the shades below, one message: Turnus has fallen.”