Meantime, with not less zeal, the Teucrians on the shore were mourning for Misenus, and paying the last 25 honour to the thankless ashes. First they raised a pile, unctuous with pine-wood, and high-heaped with planks of oak: they wreath its sides with gloomy foliage, and set up before it funeral cypresses, and adorn it with a covering of refulgent armour. Some make ready heated water and 30 cauldrons bubbling over the fire, and wash and anoint the cold corpse. Loud rings the wail: then, the dirge over, they place the limbs on the couch that claims them, and fling over them purple garments, the dead men’s usual covering. Some put their shoulders to the heavy 35 bier in melancholy service, and after ancestral fashion, with averted eyes, apply the torch from under. The rich heap is ablaze—offerings of incense, sacrificial viands, oil streaming from the bowl. After that the ashes were fallen in and the blaze was lulled, they drenched with wine the relics and the thirsty embers on the pyre, and Corynæus gathered up the bones, and stored them in a brazen urn. He, too, carried round pure water, and sprinkled thrice 5 the comrades of the dead, scattering the thin drops with a branch of fruitful olive—so he expiated the company, and spoke the last solemn words. But good Æneas raises over the dead a monument of massive size, setting up for the hero his own proper arms, the oar and the trumpet, 10 under a skyey mountain, which is now from him called Misenus, and retains from age to age the everlasting name.