XXXI. "See, hushed with wine and slumber, lies the foe. Where by the sea-gate, parts the road in twain, A stealthy passage from the camp we know. Black roll the smoke-clouds, and the watch-fires wane. Leave us to try our fortune, soon again Yourselves shall see, from Pallanteum's town, AEneas, rich with trophies of the slain. Plain lies the path, for oft the chase hath shown From darksome vales the town, and all the stream is known." XXXII. "O Gods!" exclaimed Aletes, wise and old, "Not yet ye mean to raze the Trojan race, Who give to Troy such gallant hearts and bold." So saying, he clasped them in a fond embrace, And bathed in tears his features and his face. "What gifts can match such valour? Deeds so bright Heaven and your hearts with fairest meed shall grace. The rest our good AEneas shall requite, Nor young Ascanius e'er such services shall slight." XXXIII. "Yea, gallant Nisus," adds Ascanius there, "I, too, who count my father's safety mine, Adjure thee, by the household gods I swear Of old Assaracus and Teucer's line, And hoary Vesta's venerable shrine, Whate'er of fortune or of hopes remain, To thee and thy safe-keeping I resign. Bring back my sire in safety; care nor pain Shall ever vex me more, if he return again. XXXIV. "Two goblets will I give thee, richly wrought Of sculptured silver, beauteous to behold, The spoils my sire from sacked Arisbe brought, With two great talents of the purest gold, Two tripods, and a bowl of antique mould, The gift at Carthage of the Tyrian queen. Nay, more, if e'er Italia's realm I hold, And share the spoils of conquest,--thou hast seen The steed that Turnus rode, his arms of golden sheen,-- XXXV. "That steed, that shield, that crest of crimson hue, I keep for thee,--thine, Nisus, from to-day. Twelve lovely matrons and male captives too, Each with his armour, shall my sire convey, With all the lands that own Latinus' sway. But thee, whose years the most with mine agree, Brave youth! my heart doth welcome. Come what may, In peace or war my comrade shalt thou be. Thine are my thoughts, my deeds; fame tempts me but for thee." XXXVI. "No time, I ween," Euryalus replies, "Shall shame the promise of this bold design, Come weal, come woe. One boon alone I prize Beyond all gifts. A mother dear is mine, A mother, sprung from Priam's ancient line. Troy nor the walls of King Acestes e'er Stayed her from following, when I crossed the brine. Her of this risk--whate'er the risk I dare-- Weetless, I left behind, nor breathed a parting prayer.