XVI. Then Drances, ever fain with gibes and hate To vex young Turnus, takes the word and cries, "O Trojan, great in fame, in arms more great, What praise of mine shall match thee with the skies? What most--thy deeds or justice--shall I prize? Grateful, this answer to our friends we bear, And thee (let Turnus seek his own allies), Thee King Latinus shall his friend declare, And Latium's sons with joy Troy's destined walls prepare." XVII. He spake; as one, all murmur their assent. For twice six days a solemn truce they plight, And Teucrians, now, with Latins, freely blent In peaceful fellowship, as friends unite, And roam the wooded hills. Sharp axes smite The sounding ash; these with keen wedges cleave Tall oak and scented cedar; those with might The pine-tree, soaring to the stars, upheave, And wains, with groaning wheels, the giant elms receive. XVIII. Now Rumour, harbinger of woe so great, That told of Pallas victor, fills again Evander's town. All hurry to the gate, With torches snatched, as ancient rites ordain. A line of fire, that parts the dusky plain, The long road gleams before them, as they go To meet the mourners. Soon the wailing train The Phrygians join. With shrieks the matrons know Far off the funeral throng, and fill the town with woe. XIX. Naught stays Evander; through the midst he springs, And falling on the bier, as down they lay Dead Pallas, groaning to his child he clings, And hangs with tears upon the senseless clay, Till speech, half-choked with sorrow, finds a way. "Pallas, not such thy promise to thy sire, Warely to trust the War-God in the fray. I knew what ardour would thy soul inspire, The charms of new-won fame, and battle's fierce desire. XX. "O bitter first-fruits of a youth so fair! O war's stern prelude! promise dashed to scorn! Unheeded vows, and unavailing prayer! O happy spouse! not left, like me, to mourn A son thus slaughtered, and a life outworn. I have o'erlived my destiny; life fled When Pallas left me childless and forlorn. O, had I fall'n with Trojans in his stead, And me this pomp brought home, and not my Pallas, dead! XXI. "Yet, Trojans, you I blame not, nor the hands We joined in friendship, nor the league we swore. Old age--too old--this cruel lot demands. Ah, sweet to think, though falling in his flower, He fell, where thousand Volscians fell before, Leading Troy's sons to Latium. Thou shalt have A Trojan's funeral--can I wish thee more?-- What rites AEneas offers to the brave, And all Etruria's hosts shall bear thee to the grave.