Happy pair! if this my song has aught of potency, no lapse of days shall efface your names from the memory of time, so long as the house of Æneas shall dwell on the Capitol’s moveless rock, and a Roman father shall be the world’s lord. The Rutulian conquerors, enriched with spoil and booty, were bearing Volscens’ body to the camp with tears in their eyes. Nor less loud is the wailing in the camp, when they 5 find Rhamnes drained of life, and those many chiefs slain by a single carnage—Serranus, Numa, and the rest. They flock in crowds to the bodies, the warriors yet breathing, the place fresh and reeking with slaughter, and the streams of gore full and foaming. They pass the spoils 10 from hand to hand, and recognize Messapus’ gleaming helm, and the trappings which it cost such sweat to recover. Now at last the goddess of the dawn was sprinkling the world with new-born light, as she rose from Tithonus’ 15 saffron couch: the sun had streamed in and all was revealed by daybreak, when Turnus summons his men to arms, himself sheathed in armour; each general musters in battle array his brass-mailed bands, and, scattering divers speeches, stings them to fury. Nay, more, on 20 uplifted spears, most piteous sight, they set up the heads, and follow them with deafening shouts—the heads of Euryalus and Nisus. Æneas’ sturdy family, on the rampart’s left side, set the fight in array—for the right is flanked by the river—guard the broad trenches and stand 25 on the lofty towers, deep in sorrow—touched to see those lifted human countenances, which to their grief they knew so well, dripping with black corrupted gore.