X. Two purple mantles, stiff with golden braid, AEneas brings, which erst, in loving care, Sidonian Dido with her hands had made, And pranked with golden tissue, for his wear. One, wound in sorrow round the corpse so fair, The last, sad honour, shrouds the senseless clay; One, ere the burning, veils the warrior's hair. Rich spoils, the trophies of Laurentum's fray, Stript arms and steeds he brings, and bids them pile the prey. XI. Here march the captives, doomed to feed the flames; There, staff in hand, each Dardan chief uprears The spoil-decked ensigns, marked with foemen's names. There, too, they lead Acoetes, bowed with years, He smites his breast, his haggard cheeks he tears, Then flings his full length prostrate. There, again, The blood-stained chariot, and with big, round tears, Stript of his trappings, in the mournful train, AEthon, the warrior's steed, comes sorrowing for the slain. XII. These bear the dead man's helmet and his spear; All else the victor for his spoils hath ta'en. A melancholy phalanx close the rear, Teucrians, and Tuscans, and Arcadia's train, With arms reversed, and mourning for the slain. So passed the pomp, and, while the tear-drops fell, AEneas stopped, and, groaning, cried again, "Hail, mighty Pallas! us the fates compel Yet other tears to shed. Farewell! a long farewell!" XIII. He spake, then, turning, to the camp doth fare. Thither Laurentum's envoys found their way. Branches of olive in their hands they bear, And beg a truce,--a respite from the fray, Their slaughtered comrades in the ground to lay, And glean the war's sad harvest. Brave men ne'er Warred with the dead and vanquished. Once were they His hosts and kinsmen; he would surely spare. Their plea AEneas owns, and thus accosts them fair: XIV. "What mischief, Latins, hath your minds misled, To shun our friendship in the hour of need, And rush to arms? Peace ask ye for the dead, The War-God's prey, whom folly doomed to bleed? Peace to the living would I fain concede. I came not hither, but with Heaven to guide. Fate chose this country, and this home decreed; Nor war I with the race. Your king denied Our proffered league; 'twas he on Turnus' arms relied. XV. "'Twere juster then that Turnus hand to hand His life had ventured. Dreams he in his pride To end the war, and drive us from the land? _He_ should have met me; he or I had died, As Fate or prowess might the day decide. Go, take your dead, and let the bale-fires blaze: Ye have your answer." Thus the prince replied, And each on each the wondering heralds gaze, Mute with admiring awe, and wildered with amaze.